The Long March
by Cyclone
Summary: A navigational error throws the SDF-3 into the middle of another war. Discontinued; complete rewrite planned; will be posted separately.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Long March (1?) 

Author: Cyclone

Feedback: Please be gentle.

Distribution: Gimme credit and a link.

Rating: Nothing worse than on the shows, except maybe language.

Spoilers: Up to Symphony of Light for Robotech, with a few ideas picked here and there from other sources. For the other... you'll see.

Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to other people. I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Summary: A navigational error throws the SDF-3 into the middle of another war.

Author's Note: Beware the vorpal plot bunny. Figured I ought to get at least part of this out before Shadow Chronicles comes out and completely debunks the whole thing. Not that The Prelude to the Shadow Chronicles hasn't already done that, but... oh, well.

* * *

"Defold complete." 

Admiral Richard B. Hunter rose from his command chair on the SDF-3 Pioneer's bridge as the forward display flickered to life. He'd already given the pre-battle "let's go get 'em" speech before the fleet folded, but he wanted to see Earth for himself.

It had been so long since he'd seen it.

_Wait a minute..._ The absence of Invid forces, the absence of the fleet, and the shape of the continents were each noted, and he frowned.

"That isn't Earth, Lieutenant," Rick said, feeling a little silly at pointing out something so obvious.

Lt. Jacobs, the man operating the navigation station, nodded and said nervously, "Ah, yes, sir. I'm... aware of that, sir."

"So where are we?"

"No matches in our database, sir," Jacobs replied. "Ahh, searching through Zentraedi archives right now, sir."

"Admiral!" That was Hardesty, at sensors. "Multiple contacts incoming!"

Rick looked over, "The fleet?"

"No, sir," Hardesty shook her head. "They don't match anything in our databanks. It... uhh... appears to be one heavily-armed carrier of approximatly Tokugawa size, maybe a dozen lightly-armed vessels -- probably converted civilian ships, sir -- and another thirty or forty unarmed ships. The carrier is launching mecha, type unknown."

"Scramble all veritechs!"

* * *

"Looks like we've caught them with their pants down," Colonel Saul Tigh noted with no small amount of satisfaction. "Our fighters should be on them before they can launch more than a handful of theirs." 

"Let's see how this plays out first," Commander William Adama said mildly. The small fleet they'd detected included two basestars, an array of smaller ships, and a much more massive ship that dwarfed anything they'd ever seen before; that they appeared to be unprepared was hardly a guarantee of victory. There were times Adama wished the Galactica's sensors were more precise -- a detailed analysis of the largest basestar's capabilities would have been very welcome -- but the poor sensors were part and parcel of the Galactica's outdated systems, the same primitiveness that had saved her from the initial Cylon attack.

Petty Officer Second Class Dualla's brought her hand up to her headset, "Sir! I've got an incoming transmission from the largest basestar!" She froze and looked up, "Sir, I... I think you should hear this."

"Put it on the main speakers."

"--peat, this is Admiral Hunter aboard the SDF-3 Pioneer to unidentified fleet. We mean you no harm. We were en route to our home planet, Earth, when a navigational error placed us in this vicinity instead."

The accent was thick, but understandable, if barely.

Understandable enough that a hush swept across the Galactica's bridge, broken only by the static in the transmission.

After a moment, the voice returned, "Unidentified ship, do you copy? Please respond or withdraw your..." Adama didn't recognize the next word, "...or we will be forced to assume you have hostile intentions and will respond appropriately."

"This is the Battlestar Galactica of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol to Pioneer," Adama spoke into the mic. "Commander Adama speaking. Forgive me for being blunt, Admiral, but did you say 'Earth'?"

* * *

"Sir, we're receiving a response from the unidentified fleet!" 

"What kind of response, Sparks?"

"Two streams: a coded pulse -- some kind of IFF, I think, sir -- and an audio loop."

"Let's hear it."

There was a blast of static, and the transmission played through the hiss and crackle of a low-quality transmission. Rick's frown deepened. It sounded familiar -- a lot like Zentraedi, actually -- but the accent was so thick, he couldn't make out more than a handful of words.

"I don't believe it!"

"Exedore?" Rick glanced over at the shocked Zentraedi. Since Breetai's death at Optera, Exedore had attached himself to Rick's advisory staff.

"They are the Disciples of Zor," Exedore whispered in awed disbelief.

* * *

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Madam President," Rick said evenly. "I won't lead you to Earth." 

He was on Colonial One, speaking with Laura Roslin, President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol. Standing silently behind the president was Commander Adama, senior military officer of the Colonial military. Rick's escort of CVR-clad marines -- he'd felt it undiplomatic and inconvenient for them to try to bring their Cyclones -- and their Gallant rifles had generated quite a stir. At the moment, though, he was alone with the president and the commander. His marines, last he saw them, were in a glaring match with the Colonial marines.

"Admiral, I understand your concerns," President Laura Roslin said, "but you have to consider-..."

"No, I don't believe you do," Rick cut her off. He sighed and continued, his voice gentle, "You can't because you don't know our situation. Earth is currently occupied by a hostile force. My ships were part of an assault fleet en route to liberate it."

"Oh," was all Laura could say as she digested that. The Earth admiral turned to look out a nearby viewport, and she tried to rally herself, "I... hadn't realized... of course you have your own problems, but we would be glad to offer military assistance..."

Adama's face darkened. Galactica was a good ship, with a good crew, but she was severely undermanned and underarmed. Admiral Hunter's flagship, the Pioneer, easily dwarfed Galactica, and the two next largest Earth ships each roughly matched her in size. Their capabilities had yet to be proven to Adama, but based on what little he'd seen of the technology the Earth people had -- energy weapons! -- he wasn't about to bet against them.

Admiral Hunter spoke again, his voice tight, "Since arriving over Kobol, we have been unable to reestablish contact with the fleet, and we have to conclude that the effort was a total failure, that all fleet assets were wiped out, and that the invaders remain in control of the planet. That fleet possessed enough firepower to render several planets completely uninhabitable for centuries, Madam President."

Growing despair clawed at Laura's heart as he outlined the situation. Throughout their harried flight from the Twelve Colonies, Earth had been their shining beacon of hope, the only thing that kept the nearly fifty thousand survivors going at times. Were the gods so cruel that they would send this Earth ship here, to set that hope ablaze and then so quickly extinguish it?

She wasn't about to give in just yet, though, and latched onto another hope, "Then perhaps we could seek refuge with your colonies."

The admiral shook his head slowly, "The colonies established by Earth were stripped of their defenses to mount the assault. If we were to take you there, we would risk leading the Cylons straight to them, and they would suffer the same fate as your people."

Rick took a deep breath and turned back to meet her gaze again, "I'm afraid, Madam President, that I simply cannot offer you anything more than the direct assistance of the ships currently available here, or we risk dooming the entire human species to extinction. From now on, our mission -- our only mission -- must be to survive and keep the Cylons following us for as long as possible so that Earth's colonies have the time to rebuild. Our species depends on it."

The words left a sour taste in the admiral's mouth. He remembered when the SDF-1 had been ordered to leave Earth, a decoy sacrificed to keep the Zentraedi occupied, betrayed by their own people after a year fighting their way home. He'd even gotten caught up in one of the many minor riots that had erupted from the announcement. He didn't expect any such problems with his people: Of the twenty-two ships that had defolded over Kobol, only one -- the Wright, a Montgolfier-class tender -- had any civilian personnel aboard, and the civilians there were family members of the military crews who chose to go with the expedition and knew the risks they were signing up for. The Colonials, however, were very much like the Macrossites so long ago, and he had just made the unilateral decision to crush their last hope.

It was only a small comfort that, unlike the UEDC, he was going to stand with the sacrifices.

"He's right, Madam President," Commander Adama spoke up. "It would be better for us to stay mobile than to try to settle down anywhere."

"So," the president broke the long silence, "we are truly alone."

"No," Rick said firmly. "We have each other."

After a long moment, Laura chuckled, "It's ironic, you know. Not so long ago, the fleet was divided, a rift between those who sought to find Earth and those who sought merely to survive. In the end, we came together, to find Earth, to find salvation. We had just found our first real clue to where Earth was."

"And then we came along," Rick added.

"Don't misunderstand me," she said, shaking her head. "I'm grateful, Admiral, for more than you realize. Just by being here, you've given us two things we never had before: concrete proof that Earth is real, that it's out there, and that we will one day go there." She fell silent.

"You said two things, Madam President," he reminded her after a moment. "What was the other?"

"Hope," Adama replied for her. "Hope that we can actually beat the Cylons."

* * *

Author's Postscript: 

Just thought I'd put out something new for a change.

Well, actually, that isn't much of a change for me, is it? Heh.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Long March (2/?) 

Author: Cyclone

Feedback: Please be gentle.

Distribution: Gimme credit and a link.

Rating: Nothing worse than on the shows, except maybe language.

Spoilers: Up to Symphony of Light for Robotech, with a few ideas picked here and there from other sources. For the other... you'll see.

Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to other people. I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Summary: A navigational error throws the SDF-3 into the middle of another war.

Author's Note: Beware the vorpal plot bunny. Figured I ought to get at least part of this out before Shadow Chronicles comes out and completely debunks the whole thing. Not that The Prelude to the Shadow Chronicles hasn't already done that, but... oh, well.

* * *

"Come in, Exedore."

The Zentraedi advisor entered the admiral's quarters and said, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything, Admiral."

"No, no," Rick shook his head. "Nothing important, anyway. I was just reflecting on how history repeats itself." He had long ago given up trying to convince Exedore to call him Rick.

It took a moment for Exedore to understand what the admiral had meant -- he had, after all, been on the other side during the SDF-1's trek home -- but once he did, he nodded, "Yes, the parallels between now and then are striking."

"So, I take it you've been able to find out more about the Disciples of Zor?"

"Yes," Exedore replied.

Although Exedore had recognized the Disciples of Zor, his knowledge had been sketchy. He may have been the lorekeeper for the Zentraedi, but it had been generations since his people had had direct contact with their creators, receiving orders through Supreme Commander Dolza and down the chain of command from him. Making things even more difficult was the deliberate falsification of Zentraedi history and legend engineered by the Robotech Masters.

"As you might imagine, Admiral," Exedore continued, "Zentraedi records are remarkably vague, as they tend to be. Kobol was a prosperous Tirolian colony from the pre-robotech era. It would appear that, before his rebellion, Zor spent time on Kobol, working on various research projects."

"What happened?" Rick asked.

"According to Tirolian records," Exedore said, "while we Zentraedi were involved in pursuing Zor's ship, the people of Kobol began an armed rebellion, calling themselves the Disciples of Zor. Given that the Colonial people appear to have a legend of a thirteenth colony, Earth, I can only surmise that Zor told him of his plans and perhaps hoped to distract the Masters from following him."

"I take it it didn't work?"

"No," Exedore shook his head. "The Robotech Masters chose to respond with their own bioroid forces rather than recall the Zentraedi. The Disciples of Zor retreated to their home planet and began a mass exodus, featuring twelve large colony ships. Transponder records indicate the ships were named after the Tirolian equivalent of your zodiac signs. The Robotech Masters bombarded the cities of Kobol from orbit and did not pursue the fleeing refugees."

"Really?" Rick frowned. "I can't imagine they'd just let them go like that."

"The fold signatures had some unusual features, Admiral," Exedore explained. "The Robotech Masters were unable to follow and continually remained concerned that the Disciples of Zor would return."

"But they didn't," Rick stated. He rose and looked out his viewport thoughtfully.

"You said this happened while you were following the SDF-1," Rick said, finally, "but Colonial history indicates they left Kobol two thousand years ago. You weren't following it for two thousand years." He looked back at Exedore, suddenly uncertain, "Were you?"

Exedore shook his head, "No, we were not. I believe the unique fold signatures are the result of time travel. The Disciples of Zor fled to where the Robotech Masters could not follow: the past."

* * *

Flying a Horizon-E EWAC ship was not one of the more glamourous jobs in the REF Spacy, but 3rd Lt. Thomas Harris, pilot of the Horizon-E nicknamed the Crane, wasn't about to complain. Sure, the EWAC was virtually unarmed and moved like a slug when compared to a fighter, let alone a veritech, but that just meant it was more of a challenge when he really mixed it up. There was no such thing as a "front line" in space combat, after all; it was impossible for an EWAC to be both safe and effective.

He loved the Crane. He knew her nuances like the back of his hand, and he would choose her over any fighter any day of the week.

He was, however, bored.

Right now, the two Horizon-Es that had hitched a ride with the SDF-3 Pioneer, the Crane and Eagle, were both effectively flying a Combat Aerospace Patrol. The Horizon-E had far better sensors and greater flight range than the Legioss it carried attached to its belly. The other ships in the REF fleet were flying in a defensive perimeter around the civilian ships, though the six Horizon-Ts and the four Horizon-Bs were tucked in close to the larger REF ships, as without fold drives, the Horizons would have to rely on the larger ships' fold bubbles for FTL travel.

"Bogey, coming in!" the sensor operator and senior officer of the Crane, 2nd Lt. Annabelle Hanson, called out suddenly. "Six o'clock, low!"

Tom reacted instantly, pushing the ship into what would have been a screaming climb in atmosphere. He rolled the ship, presenting the thickly-armored top hull of the ship to the bogey, protecting the smaller and more fragile Legioss from possible attack. Throughout all this, he eyed the status indicator of the attached Alpha cockpit, ready to release the Legioss once its pilot, Sgt. Craig Horn, was on board and the cockpit sealed.

He glanced out the forward viewport, then glowered at the Mark II Viper that flew past.

"Not bad for such a big clunker," a female voice came over the comm. It hadn't actually taken too long for the Earthers and Colonials to adapt to a sort of middle ground language between Zentraedi and the Colonial tongue; the similarities were stunning, despite two thousand years of variation.

Tom also recognized the voice on the comm. It was one that had many of the REF pilots practically chomping at the bit and itching for the Cylons the Colonials had told them about to show up so that they could show her a thing or two.

_What the hell,_ he thought. "You ain't seen nothin' yet, Coffee Girl," he said, pulling the ship into a tight barrel roll.

Lt. Kara "Starbuck" Thrace was a thorn in the REF pilots' sides. Only the CAG seemed unfazed by her brash comments. Then again, Commander Sterling had always been known to be a modest and calm person; he didn't earn the callsign "Igloo" by letting people get to him.

Feeling the timing, Tom suddenly pulled the Horizon-E up, crossing straight into Starbuck's flight path. A creative stream of epithets exploded from the comm speakers as she narrowly pulled her Viper out of the collision.

"I'm sorry, Starbuck," Tom said, merriment crossing his face at having humbled the Bitch, the REF pilots' private nickname for her. "I didn't copy that. Say again, over." He glanced over at Hanson, whose disapproving frown was belied by the amused twinkle in her eyes.

"Frak you," Starbuck spat, pulling her Viper away.

He grinned.

The day was looking up.

* * *

"This is unexpected," a Number Six said. "This could have grave impact on our plans."

"We should withdraw the resurrection ship," suggested one of the Number Eights. "These Earthers appear to have considerable firepower. If they were to attack it..."

"No," a Number Three replied. "Its function is too important. We need the information, and the fleet does not know of its existence."

"What of the other?" argued a Number Five. "They know about it. If they join the fleet..."

"They won't," Number Three replied. "It's time we dealt with that annoyance."

"By your command."

* * *

Commander Adama sat in his quarters and idly wondered what was going to happen next. The brief technological exchange with the Earthers was stunning. The Colonials only really had two things to offer the Earthers technologically: compact FTL drives and the technology needed to use tylium as a power source; their Dr. Lang had quickly grasped the basic concepts of tylium power and immediately set to work trying to figure out how to adapt their "protoculture" systems to it. In contrast, Dr. Baltar had practically disappeared into his lab, poring over the Gallant sidearm the Earthers had provided, and it was only the tip of the iceberg on what technologies the Earthers had to offer.

As the ranking military officer, Adama had been given authority to set priorities on what technologies were to be researched first, and he was quite honestly stunned by the array that the Earthers had to offer: handheld and ship-mounted energy weapons, superior armor plating, advanced warheads, cloaking devices. It was a lot to take in. He had settled on the Gallant because, although infantry combat was unlikely, the extremely limited supplies of explosive rounds bumped it up the priority list, and more importantly, it could be adapted to larger, fighter- and ship-scale weapons. Anything to alleviate the strain on the fleet's limited ammunition supplies would be a welcome addition.

There came a knock on his door, and he called out, "Enter."

The visitor did so, closing the door behind him and snapping off a smart salute. Adama rose and returned the salute, "Report."

"The admiral is safely away, sir," said his son, Captain Lee "Apollo" Adama and CAG of the Galactica. He had been giving Admiral Hunter a general tour of the Galactica and its operations. Adama and the president would be touring the Pioneer tomorrow.

Adama nodded. "Your impression of him?" he prompted.

"He was quite reserved, sir," Lee replied. "He seems... weary, sir. A lot like us. Like he's fought for too long. The admiral also appeared very interested in our Vipers."

"Was he a pilot or an engineer?"

"Sir?"

"You said he was interested in our Vipers. So, was he a pilot or an engineer?"

"He didn't say, sir."

"Guess."

"I'd say he was probably a pilot."

The commander nodded, "Thank you, Captain. Dismissed."

"Sir, there was one other thing."

"Yes, Captain?"

"When we visited the brig, he introduced himself to the prisoner. She requested political asylum."

* * *

Author's Postscript:

For anyone who's curious, yes, the "Igloo" callsign is a nod to Attention On Deck, used without permission.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Long March (3/?) 

Author: Cyclone

Feedback: Please be gentle.

Distribution: Gimme credit and a link.

Rating: Nothing worse than on the shows, except maybe language.

Spoilers: Up to Symphony of Light for Robotech, with a few ideas picked here and there from other sources. For the other... you'll see.

Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to other people. I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Summary: A navigational error throws the SDF-3 into the middle of another war.

Author's Note: Beware the vorpal plot bunny. Figured I ought to get at least part of this out before Shadow Chronicles comes out and completely debunks the whole thing. Not that The Prelude to the Shadow Chronicles hasn't already done that, but... oh, well.

* * *

Commander Adama tried to maintain a subdued manner as the Earth admiral drove him and the president through his flagship. That the ship was large enough to require vehicles to travel in it was a mute testament to its sheer size. The ship was probably big enough to carry the entire population of the Colonial refugee fleet by itself! 

"I'm sure this is quite a lot to take in, Commander, Madam President," Admiral Hunter said. "The Pioneer is among the largest vessels built by the people of Earth. It was initially built to mimic a Sien Dereta-class Zentraedi warship and was scaled to fit."

"Are you saying that these Zentraedi have other ships this size?" Roslin asked.

"And much larger," Hunter nodded. "The Zentraedi were created to form the military arm of a massive interstellar empire. They were much larger than humans and lived on a completely different scale."

"'Were'?" Roslin queried.

"Hmm?" Hunter responded.

"I notice you used the past tense."

"Oh," the admiral nodded in understanding. "Yes, 'were.' While there are still a few Zentraedi remnants that have taken to piracy, most of them underwent a process called 'micronization' and were then integrated into our society. Aside from a few exotic features and some genetic markers, they're now indistinguishable from humans."

"I... see," Roslin said uneasily.

The all-terrain buggy entered a hangar bay. Unlike the cavernous hangar bay in which Colonial One and the Raptor that had ferried Adama over were parked, this one had rows upon rows of combat-ready fighter craft. Adama noted that these fighter craft were the same black and grey fighters that he had seen making up the bulk of the Earthers' fighting forces. They were considerably larger than a Viper or even a Raptor, and the pilot in him concluded that the Earthers had sacrificed agility for armor and firepower.

His train of thought derailed and crashed in a bloody wreck when the Earth admiral drove into the maintenance bay behind. Technicians swarmed around the various craft in the maintenance bay, performing checks and maintenance on them. The craft included a few smaller black and grey fighters that were about a fifth again as large as a Viper, and a small part of his mind abruptly realized that the larger fighters were, in fact, these smaller fighters attached to some sort of booster. He could see one of those boosters being checked at the far end of the maintenance bay, and the sight of a pilot's chair lowered from it brought up even more questions. Several motorcycles were also being worked on, oddly enough.

But the craft that held his complete attention stood at the center of bay, towering menacingly over everything else, even as technicians scurried over and around it, popping open access panels everywhere.

It was a gigantic, black and grey Cylon.

"What... is that?" Adama finally managed to ask, pointing at the giant Cylon, amazed that his hand wasn't shaking.

Hunter looked over, then said, "Oh, that's a Shadow Alpha fighter in battloid mode."

"'Battloid mode'?"

Hunter nodded, "Because of the scale of the Zentraedi, we developed fighters that were reconfigurable to a humanoid shape for large-scale infantry combat. We've kept that basic design philosophy, because it gives our fighters a significant edge in maneuverability."

Adama considered that and had to agree. The sort of radical shifting in structure that had to entail would mean completely different thruster configurations. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could see where some of the fighter's components related to the... battloid's.

"Rick!" one of the many people in the bay waved. He was a slender man with blue-black hair and blue eyes. Adama noted the rank insignia on his uniform.

Hunter pulled to a halt next to the man who had called him and smiled, "Hey, Max." He turned to Roslin and Adama, "Madam President, Commander Adama, this is the Pioneer's CAG, Captain Maximilian Sterling. Max, this is President Laura Roslin of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol and Commander William Adama of the Galactica."

"Pleased to meet you," Sterling said, shaking their hands eagerly in turn.

"Likewise," Roslin nodded. Adama silently gave a respectful nod.

"What's up, Max?"

"Not much, just checking the veritechs."

Hunter chuckled, "I'll leave you to it then."

"It was a pleasure to meet you, sir, ma'am," Sterling nodded to them, waving as Rick drove off.

"Max was always a gifted pilot," Hunter said quietly. "Even when he first joined the Spacy under my command, he was able to fly rings around the enemy. Nine kills in his first outing. He was a natural."

Adama had difficulty trying to reconcile that with the easygoing man they had met moments ago.

"I've also read your briefing on the Cylon prisoner," Hunter said, abruptly changing the subject.

"What about her?" Adama asked.

Hunter seemed to soften at the last word, but Adama couldn't figure out why any more than he understood the sudden change in topic. Hunter's next words clarified both in an instant.

"Max was also a man who was once in a position very much like your own Lieutenant Agathon's," Hunter said. "His marriage to Miriya Parino -- a deadly Zentraedi ace who had killed dozens of our men in a single engagement -- precipitated the defection of more than a million Zentraedi warships to our side. Instead of being outnumbered six million to one, we were only outnumbered five to one."

Both of them were stunned speechless. The off-hand way Hunter spoke of the millions of ships suggested he wasn't exaggerating, and the idea that any military could field even one million ships, let alone six, was disquieting. Even at the height of its power, before the Cylon attack, the Twelve Colonies only had a hundred and twenty battlestars.

"Think about that, Madam President," Hunter continued. "In the meantime, as ranking representative of the United Earth Government, I am granting Sharon Valerii's request for political asylum."

That snapped them out of it. "Machines can't be granted political asylum," Roslin protested automatically.

"Perhaps not by your laws," Hunter acknowledged, "but by ours, any sentient being can be granted political asylum, regardless of their physiological makeup. And we're granting it to her. Now, we can do this the easy way or -- as my marines call it -- the 'fun' way. Apparently, they get a kick out of having bullets bounce off their Cyclones."

"What's a Cyclone?" Adama asked, ignoring the thorny political question for the moment.

Hunter nodded to one of the motorcycles, "Those, over there. It looks like they're about to test that one's reconfiguration module, so just watch."

Adama and Roslin watched as an armor-clad soldier straddled the motorcycle. The vehicle's engined thrummed to life with a throaty roar that seemed to carry even through the louder ruckus from elsewhere in the maintenance bay. The soldier thumbed a control on the right handlebar, and the motorcycle shifted and twisted, the soldier standing halfway through the process as the armored motorcycle wrapped itself around him in a protective shell.

While he wasn't certain of anything, the implications of what they'd just seen were clear, and Adama had a feeling that Colonial small arms would likely be as effective against Cyclone armor as it was against the heavier Cylon Centurion armor: not at all. Still, there were practical reasons why he had kept Sharon in the brig instead of allowing her to roam freely aboard Galactica -- the civilian ships were out of question for other reasons; she would have been lynched by the end of the day -- and he could not ignore them now any more than he could before.

"Admiral," Adama said, "while Sharon has assisted us and proven herself a valuable asset several times, she is still a Cylon. I believe she truly has defected, but the Cylons have demonstrated an ability to program sleeper agents as saboteurs and spies that are unable to resist and remain unaware of their programming."

"As a political refugee, she would be restricted from sensitive positions until our conflict with the Cylons has ended," Hunter replied. "As a civilian, she would be restricted to the non-military facilities on board the Wright, none of which would be particularly vulnerable to sabotage, and the only thing she'd learn, Commander, is our culture." He gave a small smile, "And if there's one thing we Earthers have learned, it's that culture can be our greatest weapon."

* * *

Captain Cole "Stinger" Taylor, CAG of the Battlestar Pegasus, swore when he saw the three basestars jump into the system. Even a Mercury-class battlestar like Pegasus would have trouble with the two that had first appeared; one was burning merrily and was out of the fight, but that meant they now faced four basestars, three of them undamaged and with full loads of Raiders. 

"Stinger to all Vipers, form up on me," he ordered as he oriented himself on the damaged basestar. "We're gonna bomb the hell out of that basestar and maybe get out of this alive."

* * *

Admiral Helena Cain clung to her command console as another Cylon nuke detonated uncomfortably close to the Pegasus. "How long until we have a jump solution?" she demanded. 

"Five minutes!"

Another near miss rocked the battlestar. Five minutes was far too long.

"Jump in two!" she snapped. "Anywhere!"

She hated making that sort of gamble again, but if she didn't... they were dead anyway. She only wished she had the time to recover the Vipers.

The Pegasus's navigational officer bent to the task, his mind racing. There was no way he could calculate a jump to a safe area in two minutes, but...

Just before the attack, he had been working on a jump calculation to take them to one of the systems they were about to scout for the Cylon fleet. He hoped they'd guessed wrong, but it was the best shot they had at getting out alive.

"Ready for jump!"

"Make the jump," Cain ordered. She closed her eyes as she thought of the pilots still outside, still fighting.

_Forgive me._

* * *

Cheers erupted over the wireless as the basestar began to disintegrate. Gouts of flame shot out as thruster fuel ignited, and a massive explosion sent a storm of shrapnel flying through space as the tylium core was breached. 

Suddenly, the joy vanished... along with the Pegasus.

They were alone.

"Well, frak me," Stinger muttered.

* * *

Author's Postscript: 

Yes, Admiral Cain is a ruthless bitch, but that doesn't mean she's a heartless one.


	4. Chapter 4

Title: The Long March (4/?) 

Author: Cyclone

Feedback: Please be gentle.

Distribution: Gimme credit and a link.

Rating: Nothing worse than on the shows, except maybe language.

Spoilers: Up to Symphony of Light for Robotech, with a few ideas picked here and there from other sources. For the other... you'll see.

Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to other people. I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Summary: A navigational error throws the SDF-3 into the middle of another war.

Author's Note: Beware the vorpal plot bunny.

* * *

Karl "Helo" Agathon was wondering just what the hell was going on. 

He had been assigned to an officer exchange program with the Earthers -- against his own very vocal protest -- to teach them about Colonial procedures and equipment and learn about Earth procedures and equipment. What made it worse was when he found out that the Old Man had left orders to keep him away from the cell where they were holding Sharon.

Right now, he was in the Montgolfier-class tender, the Wright, following his guide, a fiery redhead named Janice. The Wright was one of the two second-largest ships in the Earth fleet, each as big as a battlestar, yet still dwarfed by the massive SDF-3 Pioneer. The Wright's matching ship was virtually identical, built on the same frame, but it was a dedicated combat ship, the Tokugawa-class Xerxes. The seven smaller ships were all Garfish-class light cruisers, while the dozen smallest ships were a mix of Horizon types.

Plus, there were also the countless fighter craft scattered among the various ships. That the Pioneer alone carried over a thousand combat-ready craft was mind-boggling.

He and the other exchange officers of the Galactica crew -- Hot Dog, Racetrack, and Cally -- had been given a brief rundown on the ships in the Earth fleet, and for some reason, he had been singled out and led down this way instead of towards the military quarters.

"Here we are!" Janice announced as she knocked on a residential door. "I hope you don't mind, but given the circumstances, we thought you would prefer to stay here in the civilian quarter than in the officer dorms."

Helo frowned, but before he could ask what she meant by that, the door opened... and he froze in a warring mix of disbelief, shock, and joy.

"Sharon? But... what... how?"

Sharon threw herself into his arms and explained, "The admiral granted me political asylum."

"He what?" Helo blinked in surprise.

"The United Earth Government counts numerous sentient species as its allies," Janice threw in.

"Not to mention you," Sharon added.

Helo blinked, "Her? What about her?"

"You didn't tell him?"

"Tell me what?"

Janice shrugged, "It didn't seem relevant."

"What didn't seem relevant?"

The redhead's image flickered and faded, revealing a mechanical body beneath. "Holographic overlay," she explained. "I am a sentient android. Admiral Hunter felt Ms. Valerii might be more comfortable with another artificial life form as her guide."

Helo... honestly didn't know what to say.

* * *

"Commander, we have a right to know what's going on with those ships!" 

That was, unsurprisingly, the Sagittaron representative to the Quorum of Twelve, Tom Zarek, leading the charge at the Quorum meeting. As usual.

Commander Adama inclined his head and replied calmly, "I have kept the president up to date with regard to our new allies."

"'Allies'?" Zarek repeated, his voice ringing clear despite the uneasy murmurs that Adama's statement had generated. "They're our allies now? This is something that should have been brought up before this Quorum, not unilaterally decided by you or the president. What do they want from us?"

"So far, nothing but an exchange of technology: tylium power and FTL drives."

"I find that hard to believe, Commander. Do you know what the people are saying in the fleet? Several ships got some garbled transmission when they first showed up, and now people are saying those ships are from Earth!"

"They are."

Dead silence greeted that simple pronouncement.

Sarah Porter, the Gemenese representative, cleared her throat, "Commander, if those ships are from Earth, then why are we not making our way towards Earth now?"

"Admiral Hunter," President Roslin spoke up, "has refused to take us to Earth." Another round of troubled murmuring arose. "He has informed us that Earth is currently occupied by a hostile species and that his people's military assets are committed to that war. Communication with them has been lost, and given the situation, Earth is too dangerous to risk going to until they reestablish communications."

The room erupted into a cacophony of voices.

* * *

"Well, that could have gone better," Roslin commented. 

"It could also have gone a lot worse, Madam President," Adama pointed out. "At least now, we can focus on what to do next and let the Quorum figure out how to tell the rest of the fleet."

"Madam President, Commander Adama," one of the Quorum members called out, hurrying to catch up with them.

"Yes, Representative Zarek?" Roslin prompted.

"I just wanted to let you know," Zarek said, "that I fully support this alliance and offer any assistance I can to promote further cooperation with the people of Earth."

"Thank you, Representative Zarek," Roslin nodded politely. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Always happy to help, Madam President," Zarek nodded with his charming smile, then turned and left.

"I wonder what he's planning now," Roslin said idly.

"Maybe he isn't," Adama offered. At her questioning look, he elaborated, "We're on the run from the Cylons, we have one battlestar, and our situation is becoming more desperate each day. Sometimes, you just have to roll the hard six."

"What exactly does that mean, anyway?"

* * *

"Commander," Lt. Jarrell "Fuzzy" Kier handed the wireless handset to Adama as the Raptor flew towards the Galactica. "It's Galactica." 

"Adama here," he spoke gruffly into the handset.

It was Tigh.

* * *

"We just picked up a basestar on the DRADIS," Colonel Tigh spoke into the handset. "We've launched the alert fighters and are notifying the Earthers." 

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Adama replied.

Suddenly, a large, dark-skinned man barreled into the Galactica's CIC. His uniform was not Colonial in origin, nor was his rank insignia. It was Colonel Vincent Grant, the senior REF officer participating in the hastily-assembled officer exchange program. His eyes darted across the various screens, but he said nothing, apparently content to silently observe their CIC operations, for which Tigh was immensely grateful. The last thing he needed was for some foreigner to frak up operations on his watch. Bill might have the patience to babysit, but Tigh certainly did not.

Dualla straightened from her task of notifying the Earth ships, "Sir, they say, quote, 'About time you noticed.' They say its profile doesn't fit the basestar data we provided them, more like a bigger battlestar." She paused, listening, "They also say, sir, that whatever it is, it's not in good shape. Its hull is venting atmosphere."

"Venting atmosphere?" Tigh frowned. "Cylons don't need atmosphere."

"Before, they didn't," Adama's quiet voice crackled over the wireless, and the colonel fell silent at the reminder of the human-like Cylon agents.

"Colonel," Dualla looked up again, "the Pioneer reports two more basestars jumping in, outside of our DRADIS range. Profiles match basestars, and they're moving to engage the new arrivals."

* * *

Kara Thrace was flying one of the alert Vipers and was making best speed toward the basestar that had jumped in system. Galactica had relayed to them that the Earth flagship had detected and was moving to engage two more basestars, and Kara was eager to see just what these Earthers were made of. Alerted to their position, she could just barely make out the two distant basestars as tiny specks in the distance. 

Suddenly, the vacuum of space lit up in a blinding flash as a beam of energy lanced out past the Vipers on their starboard sides. The beam raced towards one of the tiny specks, and it winked out of existence in a muted flash.

"Hooolyyy fraaak..."

* * *

"Admiral... Target Bravo... has been completely destroyed," came the shaky voice of the Battlestar Pegasus's Tactical Officer. 

Admiral Helena Cain stared at the display in stunned disbelief. The unknown fleet of ships the Pegasus had found itself moving toward after the jump -- against their will; the ship's main thrusters had gone offline just before the jump -- had just one-shotted a basestar from beyond any battlestar's effective combat range.

"My gods..." she murmured. She was not a religious woman. Sure, she paid lip-service to the Lords of Kobol, but privately, she was largely atheistic. She believed in efficiency, in military procedure, and in the merits of competence and firepower.

For her, this was akin to a religious experience.

"I sure hope they're on our side," muttered Colonel Fisk.

A split-second later, another brilliant flash lanced past again.

"Target Alpha... destroyed."

"Hell, I'll settle for them not pointing that thing at us," Fisk amended.

* * *

"Galactica, Starbuck, the Pioneer just one-shotted the two far basestars." 

"Well, that leaves us with just the first basestar," Tigh commented, jamming his awe and fear -- no one should have that kind of firepower! -- down as much as possible. He whirled on Grant, "What the frak was that?"

"Synchro cannons, Colonel," Grant smiled in reply. "The Pioneer mounts two large ones as its main guns." As he explained, Commander Adama strode into CIC.

"Sitrep."

"The Pioneer's reporting the destruction of two basestars beyond our DRADIS range. Starbuck confirms," Dualla replied. "The Pioneer is tracking the approaching unidentified ship and waiting on us to confirm hostile or friendly."

"Sir... sir!" Gaeta suddenly spoke up. "I'm getting Colonial transponders from the approaching ship."

"Hell, now they're using our own signals against us," Tigh snorted.

Grant cocked an eyebrow at that. The Pioneer had reported that the closer sensor contact wasn't a basestar, but more like a larger battlestar, and now it was broadcasting Colonial transponder codes?

"Maybe," Adama said thoughtfully, having reached the same conclusion. "Weapons hold. Ship to ship, Colonial Priority One channel. Send hostile challenge and then put the reply up on the speakers."

Dualla bent to the task, "Attention, unknown vessel: This is the Battlestar Galactica. Identify yourself, or we will fire upon you.  
"Range now seventeen hundred, sir," Gaeta broke in.

"This is the Battlestar Pegasus to the ship claiming to be Galactica," the speakers blared with a male voice. "Please respond."

"Pegasus? How could that be?" Tigh wondered. "The entire fleet was destroyed."

"Give me direct contact," Adama said, picking up the handset. "Pegasus, this is Galactica Actual. Authenticate identity with recognition codes immediately."

"Sir," Dualla reported, "I'm receiving Colonial recognition codes. They're authentic."

"Galactica," came a female voice over the speakers, "this is Pegasus Actual. Adama, is that you?"

"Admiral Cain. What a pleasure to hear your voice."

"Trust me, Commander, the feeling's mutual. We've taken heavy damage, and our engines are shot. We're drifting, and we could really use some help here."

* * *

Author's Postscript: 

The REF... is not impressed with the Cylons.


	5. Chapter 5

Title: The Long March (5/?) 

Author: Cyclone

Feedback: Please be gentle.

Distribution: Gimme credit and a link.

Rating: Nothing worse than on the shows, except maybe language.

Spoilers: Up to Symphony of Light for Robotech, with a few ideas picked here and there from other sources. For the other... you'll see.

Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to other people. I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Summary: A navigational error throws the SDF-3 into the middle of another war.

Author's Note: Beware the vorpal plot bunny.

* * *

"All fighters, take position," Captain Maximillian Sterling, CAG of the SDF-3 Pioneer, said coolly. He wasn't like most combat pilots, never had been. He was quiet, unassuming, and outwardly modest, traits which belied the fact that he was a veteran combat pilot and an ace several dozen times over. A few people had made the mistake of thinking that his laid back nature meant he would be easy to intimidate. There weren't many of those; being married to a Zentraedi ace that most Zentraedi were in awe of did have its perks.

"Deploy smokescreens," he ordered.

Rick may have allied his small fleet with the Colonials, but the Pegasus and her crew were still unknown factors, and the REF pilots were still under orders to remain in fighter mode when they could be witnessed by the Colonials.

After all, they didn't want to start a panic.

Under cover of smoke and concealed from sensors by their shadow cloaking devices, over five hundred Shadow Legiosses reconfigured their Alpha portion to battloid mode. They clung to the hull of the drifting Mercury-class battlestar and began firing their massive Beta thrusters, slowing the ship down.

* * *

_What the hell is going on out there?_ Admiral Cain wondered. The DRADIS was completely blank, and smoke obscured the battlestar's exterior. Whatever it was, it was something these supposed Earthers wanted to hide. That, in turn, made it something she wanted to find out.

Earth. What a crock. They may have advanced technology, but so far, she hadn't seen any evidence that they were fairy tale heroes from the promised land.

That they would use smoke in space had to be the strangest thing Cain had ever encountered, but it was informative in its own right. It wasn't hard to figure out that they must have some sort of advanced stealth technology -- the blank DRADIS screens were a testament to that -- and the fact that they still used smokescreens to hide whatever it was they were hiding probably meant that their stealth system wasn't going to fool the Mark I Eyeball.

They might be allies now, but as far as Admiral Cain was concerned, these Earthers were still unknown factors.

"Pegasus, Galactica," the female voice crackled over the wireless as the Pegasus's motion relative to the rest of the ships slowed to a halt. "Do you require medical evacuation?"

"Pegasus Actual," Admiral Cain replied, speaking into the wireless handset and motioning for her communications officer to kill the speakers. "Med-evac to where?"

"Galactica Actual," Adama's voice crackled in reply. "Your people will be med-evacced to the Earth ship called the Wright. It's a tender and mobile dock, and it has better medical facilities than any other ship in either fleet. Admiral Hunter is offering the use of the Wright's facilities to repair the Pegasus."

Cain considered that for a long moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was low, "Do you trust these people, Adama?"

"Do you trust me, Admiral?" came the quiet reply. "As a fellow officer, I am asking you to stand down. Let me take the watch, Admiral. Let us help you tend to your people."

* * *

"Move it! Move it! Move it!" bellowed Master Chief Brian Niles. "We've got med-evac coming in! I want this hangar cleared in ten minutes!"

The Wright's little-used aft hangar bay was already cleared of veritechs, but it was still littered with ordnance racks, gun pods, and even a few storage-folded Cyclones. They were even locking down the hangar's computer terminals, just in case. Dr. Grant and her medical teams were standing by, and they had even flown over Galactica's chief medical officer, Dr. Cottle, and a bunch of other Colonial medics and nurses.

This was definitely not the best time to discover if there were any potentially fatal differences between Earth people and Colonial people, but they had little choice.

* * *

"Captain!" Simon called as he stormed onto the bridge of the former Colonial Independent Freighter Serenity, now the Colonial Medical Transport Serenity.

Captain Reynolds looked up, "What are you doing on my bridge? Don't you have patients to see to, doc?"

"I need more serisone," he demanded. "I've got two patients in the hold drowning in their own fluids."

"You've already got all the meds we have," Reynolds shot back. "We're only ten minutes from the Wright."

"Without more serisone, they won't last ten minutes!"

"Well, there's not a frakking thing I can do about that! I can't give you what I don't got, now can I?!" Reynolds snarled. "Now get your ass back to the hold and..." He jabbed a finger into Simon's chest with each of his next words, "Do! Your! Job!"

"Uh, Mal?" the pilot called as Simon -- the not-quite-doctor who was in the middle of his clinical rotations when the Cylons nuked the Colonies -- left the bridge.

The captain whirled and snapped, "What, Wash?"

"I think you need to see this for yourself," Wash said, pointing out the front viewport. Curious, Mal looked.

The Wright's aft hangar loomed in front of them, doors open, with an LSO waving them in and medical crews standing by.

And not a single one of them wearing EVA gear.

"Huh," Mal muttered. "Wonder how they do that."

* * *

"It's nice to actually have some other qualified doctors on board for once," Dr. Cottle muttered gruffly as he and the Earth doctors -- led by Jean Grant -- tended to the Pegasus's wounded, assisted by most of the fleet's all-too-small supply of medics and nurses, a number matched by the Wright's own medical crew. The Earth medical officers had been paired off with Colonial medics and nurses on the off-chance that the similarities between the Colonial people and Earth's people were only skin deep.

"Believe me, I know what you mean," Jean shot back with a wry smile. "I was the only xeno-qualified doctor in our last campaign for far too long."

"Hmph," Cottle harrumphed. "Little need for that here. If we weren't so short-handed, we wouldn't need any help." He snorted and added, "Unless you've got a cure for cancer on these big ships of yours."

"Depends on how far it's progressed," Jean replied.

Cottle stiffened, "I beg your pardon?"

"The Tirolian cloning technology we've salvaged included a lot of information on controlling cell growth and cell division," she elaborated absent-mindedly, keeping her focus on the patient she was tending to. "With that, we can control most forms of cancer in the early stages. If we had one of our hospital ships here, we could even clone the patient a new body and transfer the mind over, but we only do that as a last resort. It gets tricky if the cancer is familial."

* * *

"This is unprecedented," a Number Three said. "Two basestars were eliminated as if they were nothing."

"Well, I'd say it's time to set a precedent, wouldn't you?" pointed out a Cavil model.

"We need to consider what this means," a Number Five pointed out. "What else might these so-called people of Earth be able to do?"

"What we need is decisive action," the Cavil replied. "This weapon of theirs can't be as effective in close. Ten basestars should be able to dispose of them. Send twenty."

"We can't spare that many," a Number Six said. "We need more information first. They must have a weakness. If we discover it-"

"If we discover it," the Cavil interrupted. "Mark my words. If we wait too long, we're going to regret it."

* * *

"Admiral, Commander," Admiral Hunter nodded to both Cain and Adama.

"Admiral," Helena nodded back in reply as Adama did the same. They stood in her office aboard the Pegasus, which now rested snugly in the collapsible scaffolding of the Wright. The damage had been extensive; she barely had enough crew still fit for duty to set up a functional -- if barely -- two-shift duty schedule, which was going to be hellish for the crew. She had also lost one of her best potential sources of intelligence when the brig was breached during the battle, spacing Lieutenant Thorne, several of his assistants, and the Cylon prisoner.

She had already reviewed Adama's report on the Galactica's activities since the Fall of the Twelve Colonies. It seemed awfully convenient to her that Earth was suddenly both confirmed to exist and off-limits to the fleet, but they needed the Earthers too much.

Especially if they were going to take out that unknown ship the Pegasus had been tracking. This was going to be a long session.

* * *

Dr. Grant wiped her brow and sighed, "Is that the last of them?"

"They're all stable," Dr. Cottle nodded.

"Good," she said, peeling off her surgical gloves and heading for the door.

"Where are you off to?" Cottle called.

"I've still got one more patient to see to," she said, waving back at him as she disappeared down the hall.

* * *

"...and then we board and seize the ship. From the data Commander Adama provided us with, my marines should have more than enough firepower to take the ship."

Helena frowned at Hunter skeptically. She couldn't believe the plan he had proposed. It was insane!

Yet... he seemed quite confident. She glanced back at the outline of the plan Hunter had sketched out, and she couldn't see any obvious flaws in it, assuming Hunter's equipment worked as advertised.

Except, of course, for the fact that it relied on the Cylons dancing to their tune.

"It's a bold plan," she finally said. "You really think we can pull this off?"

"Audacity, Admiral," Hunter replied. "Always audacity. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you have to take chances if you wanna win, and the bulk of the danger falls on the Pioneer, the Xerxes, and my marines. Trust me; they can handle it. We just need to pick a target to hit and get some close recon on this mystery ship; I'll have one of my fighters check it out."

"Reconnaissance reports possible Cylon activity in an asteroid belt not far from here," Adama suggested. "Could be a tylium refinery."

* * *

"And how's my favorite patient?" Jean asked with a dimpled smile.

The infectious grin spread across her patient's face as she teased, "Isn't it your job to tell me?"

"Well, let's find out," Jean said, turning to the diagnostic computer. "The lab work should be back by now." Her smile faded as her face twisted in confusion. This shouldn't be. She had just spent several hours treating Colonial patients, and none of them -- none of them -- had these results.

"What's wrong?" her patient asked anxiously.

"Nothing, Sharon," Jean shook her head, trying to make sense of it as she turned back to her patient.

"That's not nothing," Sharon half-accused, shaking her head worriedly.

"Nothing bad," Jean amended. "It's just... I don't understand why you have protoculture in your blood."

"'Protoculture'?"

* * *

Author's Postscript:

It's becoming a game of "Spot the Cameos" now.


	6. Chapter 6

Title: The Long March (6/?) 

Author: Cyclone

Feedback: Please be gentle.

Distribution: Gimme credit and a link.

Rating: Nothing worse than on the shows, except maybe language.

Spoilers: Up to Symphony of Light for Robotech, with a few ideas picked here and there from other sources. For the other... you'll see.

Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to other people. I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Summary: A navigational error throws the SDF-3 into the middle of another war.

Author's Note: Beware the vorpal plot bunny.

* * *

Sharon Valerii walked towards Galactica's CIC. It was strange how things had changed. She remembered walking down these same corridors, high-fiving the rest of the crew as she passed, but those memories were mere echoes. More recently and much more clearly, she remembered being surrounded by Colonial marines, ready to kill her if she tried anything.

A quartet of marines accompanied her now, but there were subtle differences: These marines were REF, not Colonial, and they were her bodyguards, not her jailers. Instead of the prison garb she had been wearing last time, she was wearing a dark blue jumpsuit in a similar cut to the REF's blue-grey duty uniforms. It was... disorienting.

They were joined by Colonel Grant, and she asked, "What's going on, Colonel?"

"The Galactica's been having minor malfunctions for several days now," he explained. "Lieutenant... Gaeta, I believe, and Doctor Baltar found a virus. One of our exchange officers, a computer hacker, took a look at it. All he could tell was that it's very advanced. He's trying to lock down and isolate the problem, but he's not having much luck." He handed her a stack of papers, "Here's a printout of the virus code."

Sharon looked it over and nodded, "It's a Cylon logic bomb. It's probably testing itself for now, stretching its legs, so to speak. Once it knows what it can do, it'll go dormant and wait for an activation signal."

"And when it gets the signal?" Grant prompted.

Sharon blew out a long sigh, "It'll probably vent the ship and turn her guns on the rest of the fleet."

* * *

First Lieutenant Calvin "Biff" Tannen was many things. He was a veritech pilot, a demolitions expert, and an experienced commando; it was all of these that had earned him a spot in then-Commander Anderson's experimental commando squadron. The... versatility of the Wraiths was also presumably why they had been picked for the hastily-organized officer exchange program. They were three pilots light, and in order to keep some relative parity with the Galactica's four transferring officers, Gary had chosen to take the command detachment and the spare fire team, leaving squad one aboard the Pioneer.

He was also a mechanic, so once he was on board the Galactica, it was inevitable that he would eventually find his way back to the port hangar deck.

At the moment, he was eyeing the partially-built hulk of a fighter -- and damn him if those Vipers didn't look an awful lot like Zentraedi Gnerls -- sitting in one corner of the hangar. Several members of the deck crew were going over the unfinished craft meticulously.

"Beautiful, isn't she?"

Cal looked over at who had spoken. It was Galen Tyrol -- and wasn't that an interesting name? -- Galactica's deck chief and senior NCO.

"That she is," Cal nodded, admiring the design's sleek triangular shape, so unlike the old-school atmospheric design of the Alpha or the Beta's flying brick motif. "But I thought the Pegasus had a Viper factory on board. Why are you building one here?"

"We're not building a Viper," Tyrol replied. "After we saw how stealthy your fighters were, we decided to make our own. We don't have the metal to spare to build a Viper anyway."

Cal smiled and began to roll up his sleeves, "Would you like some help?"

"I thought you were a pilot?" Tyrol frowned.

"I was a mechanic before I ever signed up, Chief."

"All right," Tyrol said. "Let's see what you've got."

* * *

The rest of Wraith Squadron, squad one, was currently flying CAP. They were packing a full combat load, which meant a Shadow Legioss per pilot, with no backseat drivers. The commanding officer of the squad was Second Lieutenant Michael "Arches" Donaldson.

And right now, Arches had a headache. One which Captain George "Catman" Birch -- senior officer of the Galactica's CAP -- sympathized with.

Their twin headaches could be traced to the two fighters -- a Viper and a Shadow Legioss -- blazing through the nearby gas giant's planetary ring at suicidal speeds, juking and diving to avoid the rock and ice fragments as their pilots bantered with each other, hurling ever-more-creative insults across the tacnet.

The pilot of the Viper was Lieutenant Louanne "Kat" Katraine. That Kat was one of the few pilots from the Galactica willing to get in Starbuck's face was a good indicator of just what Catman was having to deal with. That he had screwed up and nearly gotten Kat killed during his short interim as the Galactica's CAG wasn't helping either.

The pilot of the Shadow Legioss, however, was none other than Wraith Sixteen, Corporal Felicia "Sandy" Skinner. That Sandy had gotten two field commissions and then managed to lose them both due to "chronic insolence" was a good indicator of just what Arches was having to deal with. That he had chosen to push her away when, once upon a time, she had tried to get close to him wasn't helping either.

"So..." Arches said, "got any ideas, Catman?"

"I wish I did."

After a moment of thought, Arches had an idea.

"Tell the CAG?"

"Tell the CAG."

Having reached an agreement, the two CAP commanders relaxed and sat back to watch.

After all, those two pilots really were that good.

* * *

"She has what?!" Rick bolted to his feet, staring at Jean in disbelief.

"Sharon has protoculture in her blood," she replied calmly.

"Any idea how that happened?" he asked.

"No," Jean shook her head. "She hasn't granted me permission to release any more information than that, Rick, so please, don't ask."

"All right," he nodded. "Just one thing: Is this enough to reclassify her as a micronized Zentraedi?"

Jean frowned suspiciously, "Why?"

"Just an idea," he replied absent-mindedly, stroking his chin in thought.

There was a knock on the door, and Rick called out, "Enter."

The door slid open, revealing Captain (Upper Half) Wade Anderson, captain of the Pioneer, clutching a sheaf of papers in his hands.

"Oh, uh, sorry, admiral..."

"No, no, no, Wade," Rick waved him in.

"I was just on my way out," Jean nodded a greeting to Captain Anderson and left.

"I take it that's the latest status report?" Rick asked.

Anderson nodded, "Yes, sir." He stepped forward and handed it to Rick, "We've converted the Pioneer's computer network to a hard-line-only network and added the new security protocols. Our comm center's now physically isolated from the rest of the network."

"And sensors?"

"Eighty-five percent secure."

"Good," Rick said. "What's happening on the Galactica seriously underscores the urgency of these modifications."

Anderson nodded, "Curtis... I mean, Corporal Dorn morsed me a message. He's keeping a sample of the virus code so our programmers can work up something nasty for the next one."

Rick shot him a sly smile, "Oh? Still keeping an eye on your old squadron, I see."

"Please," snorted Anderson. "I'm just trying to keep their little surprises from blowing up in my face like they usually did, back when I still flew with them."

"Suuure," Rick grinned. "By the way, soon as the Galactica gives the all-clear, call Vince over. Have him hitch a ride with Ms. Valerii's ride back. I'm calling a staff meeting. I need to straighten out my chain of command."

Wade did not like the smile on his CO's face. No, not one bit.

* * *

Lieutenant Kara Thrace climbed out onto the Raptor's wing, stopping just short of stepping off onto the hangar deck. She saw a blonde woman in an unfamiliar variation of the REF uniform. Her rank tabs proclaimed her a captain, and her nameplate was marked "Sterling."

Kara saluted, "Request permission to come aboard, sir."

Dana smiled at the slight difference in the services and returned the salute. "Permission granted, Lieutenant. I'm Captain Dana Sterling, XO of the Second Army Detachment. I'm here to get you settled in and initiated to the semi-controlled insanity that is the Robotech Expeditionary Force Army." She paused and added, "And just so you know, if the major makes a pass at you... well, we're running a pool on how long it'll be before you slap him."

Kara arched an eyebrow, "When do you have down for?"

"Two days," Dana sang with a cheerful smile. "He's already been busted down to private once for making a pass at the wrong person."

Kara shook her head in amusement and followed Captain Sterling.

* * *

"You will surrender the prisoner to me."

Rick tilted his head slightly. The effect was lost, since the Colonials didn't use video in their comm systems, but he reacted on reflex. "What prisoner, Admiral?" he asked amicably. "Unless you're referring to Petty Officer Jones, who's in the brig for drunk and disorderly conduct, I have no idea who you might be referring to."

"I am referring to the Cylon agent known as Sharon Valerii," Admiral Cain's voice returned, carrying with it an undertone of menace. "Why didn't you tell me you had a Cylon prisoner on board? Commander Adama's report on the prisoner led me to believe she had perished."

"She's not a prisoner, Admiral," he replied. "She's a political refugee under the protection of the United Earth Government. Any attempt to detain her by force by your military will be considered an act of war."

"I see," her voice was curt and reluctant. It was obvious she wasn't going to let the matter drop that easily.

"I want you to understand something, Admiral," he said gently. "As far as we are concerned, Sharon Valerii is a defector, not a prisoner. For decades, we've fought other species -- species which have brought us to the brink of extinction -- but one thing we've learned is that former enemies can become the greatest allies. Our fleet's own Deputy CAG was among the first Zentraedi to defect to the Earth forces, after killing dozens of our own pilots, and she proved herself to us, risking her life on countless occasions against her former brethren. Ms. Valerii has no human blood on her hands, Admiral, Colonial or Earther. She's one of us now. Hunter out."

With that, he killed the comm line and stood up.

He had a staff meeting to get to.

* * *

Author's Postscript:

A whole helluva lot more cameos here. There have been quite a few others in earlier chapters too, with names changed, besides the Firefly scene in the last chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

Title: The Long March (7/?) 

Author: Cyclone

Feedback: Please be gentle.

Distribution: Gimme credit and a link.

Rating: Nothing worse than on the shows, except maybe language.

Spoilers: Up to Symphony of Light for Robotech, with a few ideas picked here and there from other sources. For the other... you'll see.

Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to other people. I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Summary: A navigational error throws the SDF-3 into the middle of another war.

Author's Note: Beware the vorpal plot bunny.

* * *

"Wade, you're accepting this promotion," Rick said.

He was in his conference room with his senior command staff: Captain (Upper Half) Maximillian Sterling, his old wingmate and fleet CAG; Colonel Vincent Grant, senior officer of the Pioneer's marine detachment; the Pioneer's flag captain, Captain (Upper Half) Wade Anderson; and another old friend, Captain (Upper Half) Vanessa Leeds, commodore of the destroyer squadron and captain of the Xerxes.

"C'mon, Rick," Wade complained. "Bad enough you've got me flying a desk. Now you want to make a flag officer out of me?"

Rick cracked a smile, "Believe me, Wade, I know exactly how you feel, but without Reinhardt here, I need a Group XO and a Chief of Staff. Think of it this way: You have been complaining about having only the one ship to handle."

He scowled, "How come Max doesn't have to put up with this?"

"Wade, you know why," Max replied. "As good as I am with fighter tactics, I have no head for fleet tactics."

Wade glowered.

"You three are nuts, you know that?" Vince said, shaking his head at Rick, Max, and Wade. "I've never seen anyone who opposed their own promotions as much as you three."

"Glad to hear that, Vince," Rick said, his smile growing into a full-blown grin. "You're now the commander of all fleet ground forces."

Vince blinked, "'All'?"

Rick nodded, "Reinhardt was our overall ground force commander as well as my Chief of Staff, and we need to consolidate your marines with Sean's Army troops on the Xerxes."

His gaze swept over to Vanessa, who was snickering and doing a poor job of concealing it. She stopped and frowned as his gaze settled on her, "Admiral, you don't have any more positions to fill."

"No," he admitted, "but I figured I needed to invent one just to keep life interesting." He grinned. "I'll get back to you on that. For now, I'll leave you to inform Major Phillips of Vince's new status."

* * *

"Seriously, Rick, did you have to make me a rear admiral?" Wade complained after the others had left. The staff meeting had ended, but the new admiral stuck around.

"Yes, Wade, I did," Rick said patiently. "Admiral Cain has been through a lot, and she's under a lot of pressure. She could use someone of equal rank to talk to."

Wade pursed his lips thoughtfully, "Rick, did you actually look at the rank equivalency chart we hashed out? She's a rear upper!"

"That's awfully unprofessional of you," Rick shot back with a smirk.

"You know what I mean, Rick," Wade said, his eyes narrowing. "That makes her closer to one of our vice admirals than a rear admiral."

Rick's smirk broadened into a grin, "What? Bucking for another promotion already? Never knew you were that ambitious." His grin faded, "Seriously, Wade, the chart we knocked together isn't perfect; that commander rank of theirs really muddies it up. A rear admiral is a rear admiral, and if I made you a vice, she probably wouldn't treat you like an equal, more like a foreign superior, given the nomenclature."

"Why are you so worried about her?"

"Because... I've looked into her eyes, Wade. She's been looking into the abyss. And she blinked."

* * *

"What's done is done, Admiral," Commander Adama said calmly. "Given the circumstances, I didn't feel it necessary to include it in my report."

"You're standing on thin ice, Adama," Cain said, leaning forward onto the desk. They were standing in Adama's office. Cain stood because she preferred to, while Adama stood because protocol demanded it so long as she stood. She had had a Raptor prepped and had flown over to Galactica immediately after her conversation with Admiral Hunter.

She could have ordered Adama to report to her, but she was hoping to catch him unprepared, or at least off-balance, in case this was a genuine attempt to undermine her authority. So far, though, Adama seemed to be taking things in stride.

"The president felt that information regarding this particular Cylon agent was need to know, sir," he replied. "She did not believe you needed to know."

Cain straightened up and stiffened at that. This was not the time for a... for a school teacher to be leading the human race and dictating military policy... but Case Orange protocols were very clear.

In a sense, it was an attempt to undermine her authority, but not one by Adama... at least not directly.

"What do you think of these Earthers, Adama?" she asked. "Can we really trust them?"

"Can we afford not to?" he asked in return.

"No," she admitted after a long moment. "We can't."

There was another long and uncomfortable silence, which Adama broke gently, "Admiral, will you be transferring your flag to Galactica?"

She frowned as she considered it. The Galactica was old, but she was almost fully functional. The Pegasus was a crippled ship, engines shot, with barely a single squadron of functional Vipers left...

Her thoughts strayed back to the Vipers she had left behind, a dull ache throbbed in her chest at the memory, sealing her resolve. She'd made her choices. She owed it to the Pegasus.

"No, Commander, I will not," she said, shaking her head. "Pegasus may be crippled, but she still has her guns, she's still got Vipers, and she still needs a commander."

* * *

"We've only got the one prototype, so please, try not to break it, Captain!" That was Doctor Gaius Baltar, Vice President of the Twelve Colonies, yelling over the noise in the Galactica's port hangar pod as he approached Captain Adama. The entire bay was abuzz with activity as the deck crew frantically checked and rechecked the Vipers for the upcoming mission.

"I'll try to be careful, Doctor," Lee replied sarcastically, leaning over so that the vice president could hear him. The prototype they were talking about was Baltar's first attempt to duplicate and adapt the REF Gallant sidearm for Colonial use. It was a scaled up version of the particle beam gun, scaled to fit a Viper's standard autocannon mount.

At the moment, Chief Tyrol and his select team were installing it in Adama's Viper, replacing its port-side autocannon.

"I just hope it works as advertised, Doctor," Lee added. "This op's gonna be messy enough without that thing quitting on me." He watched the installation with a critical eye.

Normally, he would have given the prototype to Starbuck -- more than anyone, he trusted Kara and her out-of-the-box thinking to handle any unexpected quirks in the particle beam cannon that were inevitably going to crop up -- but she had been temporarily reassigned to the Xerxes for a classified part of the operation.

Silence descended on the hangar bay. Gaius could still see the activity surrounding him, but he couldn't hear it.

"Hello, Gaius."

The familiar voice pierced the sudden silence. His eyes darted over, and he murmured under his breath, "I was wondering where you'd gotten to. You've been awfully quiet lately. Did... God... overlook these Earthers?"

Six slapped him, and he hissed, clutching at his cheek. "Choose your words carefully, Gaius," she warned. "No one is irreplaceable, not even you."

* * *

"You're frakking me," Kara said. She looked around the small briefing room, wondering if there were cameras hidden somewhere.

"Nope," Captain Sterling shook her head.

"That thing turns into a giant Cylon?"

"Not Cylon," Dana corrected. "Battloid. That's the term; get used to it. Cylons are the enemy. Battloids are equipment. Big, tough, expensive equipment with really big guns." She shook her head and muttered, "I still can't believe you've only got one word for 'robot.'"

"Okay, okay," Kara waved it off. "So... why were these hovertanks designed to turn into... battloids?"

"For that, we have to go back to the inception of the original veritech fighters, the VF-1 Valkyries, and the enemy they were designed to defend against," Dana said. She coughed and recited, "This information has been deemed potentially dangerous by Colonial High Command. Revealing it to unauthorized personnel will be subject to intense review and potential court martial." She smiled. "Now that that's out of the way..." she cued up a series of footage from the First Robotech War.

Kara stared.

"The average full-size Zentraedi stood around nine meters tall, though some were considerably taller," Dana explained. "They were a race of clone warriors created by the Robotech Masters." She switched to a still of a resizing chamber, "With a protoculture resizing chamber, a Zentraedi can be micronized to human size. Humans and Zentraedi are genetically compatible -- I'm living proof of that -- and the Zentraedi have largely been assimilated into Earth culture. We still don't know how humans developed on both Earth and Tirol, let alone Kobol."

Dana wasn't technically lying. They didn't know how human life developed on both Earth and Tirol, but they knew damn well the connection between Tirol and Kobol. That, however, had been classified at the highest level among the Colonials; only President Roslin and Commander Adama had been informed, as far as the REF knew. The reaction that information was likely to cause was deemed too great a risk.

Kara, for her part, noticed something odd about the footage. The footage never showed more than one Earth ship, and it was always the same class of ship, a blue and white brick about the size of a battlestar -- she didn't quite realize that the Valkyries were a fair bit larger than the Shadow Alphas she had seen in the hangar bay -- so where were the reinforcements?

"How come you only ever sent one ship against them?"

"We only had one ship," Dana replied off-handedly. "At least for most of the war, anyway. The Armor platforms and Oberth destroyers were almost all wiped out in the opening salvo. We were outnumbered, outgunned, and technologically inferior." She grinned, "We're kinda used to having our backs to the wall."

"Well, frak," Kara leaned back, impressed. "How'd you beat them?"

Dana cued up footage from the Rain of Death, "That's the Zentraedi Main Fleet. Nearly five million ships, some of which are over twice the size of the Pioneer, plus that massive thing in the middle there. We had convinced the Imperial Fleet, a force one million ships strong, to defect. With a combination of psychological warfare and a lot of reflex weapons, we were able to defeat them, but not before they leveled a good chunk of the Earth."

"My gods..." Kara stared. The display was showing gun camera footage of the Rain of Death itself, and the entire planet was ablaze, bombarded with weapons just like the Pioneer's synchro cannons.

Except bigger. Lots bigger. And a whole hell of a lot more of them.

She was watching a single planet being bombarded with enough firepower to devastate the Twelve Colonies. It wasn't thorough -- many of the shots overlapped, leaving parts of the planet completely untouched -- but it was considerably more devastating than the nukes that had hit Caprica.

Most of Caprica was still habitable, after all. The wilderness was practically untouched by the nuclear strikes, and even Delphi had been spared.

Hell, her apartment had been exactly as she'd left it before the war.

But what she was seeing now... she couldn't imagine trying to live on a planet that had been through that.

* * *

When the ship jumped into the system, it was spotted almost immediately. Cylon Raider patrols had been constant but small, but they had been stepped up after the Colonial reconnaissance Raptor had been detected nearby.

One of these patrols found their view of the system's pale star suddenly obstructed. Within one second, they had decided to get a closer look. Forty seconds after the ship's arrival, they tentatively identified it as the largest Earth ship, the Pioneer.

Forty-two seconds after the Pioneer's arrival, the Raiders were destroyed.

* * *

Author's Postscript:

Yes, it's that Vanessa Leeds. Her name was conspicuously absent from the list of dead that Supreme Commander Leonard mentioned in Dana's Story, so I decided that in my universe, she survived.


	8. Chapter 8

Title: The Long March (8/?) 

Author: Cyclone

Feedback: Please be gentle.

Distribution: Gimme credit and a link.

Rating: Nothing worse than on the shows, except maybe language.

Spoilers: Up to Symphony of Light for Robotech, with a few ideas picked here and there from other sources. For the other... you'll see.

Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to other people. I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Summary: A navigational error throws the SDF-3 into the middle of another war.

Author's Note: Beware the vorpal plot bunny.

* * *

Cylon Raiders were equipped with a wide variety of sensors, and unlike a human pilot, they had no need to look at a sensor screen to access that data. It was much a part of them as sight or hearing was to a human.

The Shadow Legiosses they were fighting was invisible to those sensors. Only the Raiders' forward camera could detect them, and even then, it was difficult to see the black and grey fighters against the backdrop of space. The Raiders were like humans fighting an invisible army, forced to rely on hearing... in the middle of a busy metropolitan intersection.

The Pioneer had disgorged over five hundred Shadow Legiosses to assault the tylium refinery. There were only sixty Cylon Raiders assigned to its garrison.

The Cylons didn't stand a chance.

Unlike the current generation of Centurions, the current generation of Cylon Raiders were sentient. It was a primitive sentience, more bestial than human, but sentience nonetheless. Like the human models, they were downloaded when they died, giving them a degree of immortality.

But that immortality came with a price, a price that caused them to value their current bodies just as much as they would if they were as mortal as their human adversaries.

Dying hurt. A lot.

It was for this reason -- as well as more practical manufacturing limits -- that the fleet of Colonial refugees had not been destroyed months ago. Kamikaze attacks -- though that particular term would be foreign to Cylon and Colonial alike -- were simply impractical.

The pain of death was something that Cylon Raider 4711-38 was intimately familiar with. One of its deaths had been particularly painful: damaged, lying in the desert for hours, waiting for death to grant him release, only to have it arrive in the form of a human. A human who climbed inside him and ripped out his innards.

It was then that 4711-38 experienced another interesting facet of sentience, a new emotion: hate.

Hate is a powerful thing. Left unchecked, it can easily consume someone, overriding common sense, logic, and even self-preservation. This is something humans had learned time and time again throughout their histories, no matter their planet of origin. Even the Zentraedi -- emotionally stunted as they were -- knew the power of hate, even before encountering the people of Earth; within a warrior culture, hate is an emotion that comes easy to the unwary.

The Cylons were a young race. They were still learning.

And so it was that, high above the tylium refinery, Cylon Raider 4711-38 dove through the swarm of veritech fighters, firing his cannons and heedlessly weaving through them, taking risks no sane being would. It was that recklessness that would earn the Cylons a much needed victory.

A small victory, insignificant on the face of it, but a victory nonetheless.

When a particle beam grazed 4711-38's wing, he ignored it, focusing on his target. He had no reason to hate his target, save for the fact that it most assuredly was being piloted by a human. Suddenly, his focus broke as a cluster of missiles detonated nearby, sending shrapnel into his outer skin.

Fueled with rage at the insult and at the deaths -- however temporary -- of his brethren, 4711-38 poured more fuel into his thrusters, leaping toward his target. He knew he would die, but as God as his witness, he would take at least one of these humans with him to the other side.

After all, he'd be back.

* * *

Sergeant Jack "Piggy" Parker was in trouble. He couldn't shake the Cylon that was on his tail, and somehow, the slippery little tin can was able to evade the other REF pilots' shots, defying both the technological and ten-to-one numerical advantage they had.

_Just my luck to be stuck with the damn Igloo of Cylons,_ he thought sourly.

His Legioss's armor had already been perforated with a handful of shots, and the brass -- in their infinite wisdom -- had forbidden them from converting to guardian or battloid mode. He hadn't taken any life-threatening damage yet, but the Raider just kept coming.

"Piggy here. Can't any of you dumb f---s hit that tin can?" Just as he said that, his veritech shuddered as something -- the Cylon Raider that was tailing him -- rammed into it from behind.

"Shit!" he swore as warning lights flashed. "Control, Piggy. Beta's been wrecked. Gonna have to disengage to hold her together."

"Copy that, Piggy."

* * *

Dispassionately from his seat in the Pioneer's captain's chair, Wade Anderson watched the... no, this wasn't a battle. It was a massacre.

"Anything, Sparks?" he asked.

The communications officer shook his head, "The airwaves are flooded. They're just throwing signals at us, hoping something will stick. Whatever software they're using, it isn't even compatible with our OS. They might as well be throwing feathers at us."

"Keep monitoring," Wade replied. "No time to get complacent. They can still get lucky."

* * *

Elsewhere, another battle was unfolding. With the arrival of the Earthers, the Cylons had suddenly found themselves losing the initiative. Initially, they had halted their attacks out of caution and a need to analyze the new ships. Then, a battle that should have been simple -- the obliteration of a single understaffed battlestar that had already lost most of its Vipers -- had been foiled, their prey slipping through their grip right doing exactly what the Cylons had been trying to keep them from doing: uniting with the rest of the fleet. They had lost four basestars in that fiasco.

So when they detected the two largest Earth warships and four of the smaller ones jumping away, they had to take the opportunity. They did not know where the smaller warships went, but the largest -- their flagship, the Pioneer -- had been observed making a critical strategic error: It had launched over five hundred fighters to assault the comparatively-lightly defended tylium refinery.

It would take time to recover all those fighters before they could jump out, and one tylium refinery was certainly a small price to pay when compared to the opportunity this represented. At the moment, the civilian fleet was guarded only by the Galactica, the crippled Pegasus and the Earth tender that was tending to it, and the much smaller Earth ships.

In response to the growing threat, the Resurrection's escort had been increased. Eight basestars against one outdated battlestar, one crippled battlestar, one non-combat military vessel, and a handful of smaller ships.

It should have been easy.

The Cylons were a young race. They still had not yet theorized an equivalent of Murphy's Law.

And Murphy was about to kick them in the face.

* * *

The REF Marine Corps dropship Wolf was a shadow-equipped Horizon-T-class transatmospheric dropship. While a Horizon-class shuttle -- even the -T variant -- normally required a crew of eight, marine dropships were typically stowed within larger naval vessels, rather than being deployed for extended periods of time. This meant that five of the eight crewmembers were largely unnecessary, as their jobs included command duties, navigation, engineering, and so forth. Considering that the on-board marine platoon's lieutenant usually handled communications, they were able to cut down the crew to a mere two: pilot and copilot.

The Wolf's pilot was Corporal Colette Ferro. Her copilot was Private First Class Daniel Spunkmeyer. The senior officer on board the Wolf -- and the only commissioned officer -- was Lieutenant William Gorman, who was monitoring the comm station, just in case.

Meanwhile, the squadron's technical adviser -- Tech Sergeant Lance Bishop, a half-Zentraedi -- was monitoring the sensor readout. They were relying on his experience to time this right.

"Wait for it..." Bishop muttered. "Wait for it..."

The other ships dropped into place. The first beams of light lanced out from the Wright.

"Wait for it!" Bishop warned again, waiting for the right moment.

* * *

"Pioneer is reporting site secure." That was the Wright's communications officer.

"Understood," Admiral Hunter nodded.

Rick had temporarily transferred his flag to the Wright. This was where he was needed. Even though the Wright was not a warship, it had to be maneuvered like one. The Pegasus -- clutched to its belly like a nursing dolphin -- was relying on the Wright for its combat maneuvering.

It showed a level of trust that Rick was not about to break, and however good the Wright's captain, Commander Tankersley, was, he was not used to maneuvering to engage the enemy. This end of the plan had been deceptively simple. They had some of the fleet's ships begin mining operations, and when the Cylons made their move, most of the fleet bugged out. The Wright remained, pretending to have problems with their fold drive, luring in the Cylon Raiders.

Then, a squadron of shadow fighters swooped in and blew apart the Cylon flagship's FTL drive. The explosion was the signal for the rest of the fleet's warships to jump into position.

The Galactica had jumped in on one flank, while the Garfishes had folded in on the other three, boxing the fleet in as the Wright opened fire. By that point, the Wright, pretending to be a sitting duck trying to flee with sublight engines, had lured the target fleet well within the range of her guns.

Three-gigajoule particle beams lanced out and slashed across the nearest basestar, searing armor with power equivalent to over half a ton of TNT. Compared to the nuclear warheads that were the standard anti-ship missiles used by the by both Colonial and Cylon forces, it was not very powerful, but against the Cylon basestars -- which had been designed as dedicated mobile fighter carriers and only armored enough to withstand the rigors of space rather than ship to ship combat -- it was more than enough. The basestar's exterior hull crumpled and blackened, melted to slag by the particle beams as subsequent shots penetrated ever deeper before the Wright's gunners moved on to the next.

Meanwhile, the defensive turrets that dotted the Wright and Pegasus opened up, and the two mated ships began reversing thrust. Slowly but surely, the momentum of the two ships was halted, then reversed. Still, the Cylons were not idle. While the basestars remained helpless, lacking weapons designed to engage capital ships, their Raiders were not, and they began their attack.

A lone squadron of Vipers launched from the Pegasus, flying out to challenge the incoming Cylons. Twenty fighters in all, it was a pitiful defense.

Or it would have been, had they not been accompanied by over a hundred and fifty veritechs -- half of them older models that lacked shadow cloaking devices, but were still quite formidable -- and the point defense weapons of a Mercury-class battlestar, which far outclassed the Wright's own point defense network.

Still, there were literally hundreds of Cylon Raiders in the assault force.

* * *

"That's a lot of fighters," muttered Second Lieutenant Rachel "Mercy" Torres as she flew her Lightning III toward the cloud of incoming Raiders.

The Wright's veritech complement was a fairly even mix of VF-4D Lightning IIIs, VF/A-6 Alphas, and VF/B-9 Betas. While the Lightning III -- easily distinguished by its distinctive wing/arm beam cannons -- was an older fighter, in many ways, it was superior to the more specialized Alphas and Betas. It could fill mission roles that would otherwise require a Legioss.

"Cut the chatter, Mercy," that was Lieutenant Commander Hiller, the Wright's CAG and Mercy's squadron leader. "Let's light 'em up, Knights!"

* * *

"Admiral, we have nukes inbound!"

"Request Pegasus to cease fire and raise the barrier," Rick ordered. "Order all fighters to minimum safe range."

"Pegasus has ceased fire."

"Omnidirectional barrier system is up."

"Nuclear weapons impact in five... four... three... two... one... impact."

A series of brilliant flashes of light polarized the bridge viewports.

"Capacitors holding. Barrier system is stable."

Rick nodded. He hadn't been entirely sure whether the Cylon nuclear volley would have overloaded the barrier system or not. The yield calculations had indicated the barrier system could handle it, but nothing beat a field test, and considering how the barrier system inverted when overloaded, it was a minimal risk.

"Drop the barrier and resume suppressive fire. Inform Pegasus weapons clear. Signal the Pioneer. It's time to drop the hammer."

* * *

The Cylons had taken heavy losses, and several of their basestars had been very heavily damaged; some would not be salvageable. It was a neat little trap that the humans had laid, but the Cylons remained confident in their victory. Through sheer numbers alone, they knew they would emerge victorious.

Two things caused them to rapidly reassess the odds.

The first was when the unseen Earth ship rammed the side of the resurrection ship and disgorged about a dozen humans in unfamiliar body armor. This was, however, a very minor detail compared to the other.

The other was the Earth flagship appearing behind the fleet, blocking the resurrection ship's only possible escape route.

With over five hundred virtually invisible fighters already deployed.

Not that the Cylons knew about the fighters before they started blowing things up.

* * *

On board the resurrection ship, one of the Cavil models had only one thing to say about this.

"I told you."

* * *

Author's Postscript:

Well, we finally get some veritech vs. Raider action, and... it's not pretty. Those shadow cloaking devices just make things manifestly unfair.

Don't expect this string of victories to keep going. The Cylons were totally unprepared to face either robotechnology or shadow technology. Now, they've actually got some idea of what they're actually up against.


	9. Chapter 9

Title: The Long March (9/?) 

Author: Cyclone

Feedback: Please be gentle.

Distribution: Gimme credit and a link.

Rating: Nothing worse than on the shows, except maybe language.

Spoilers: Up to Symphony of Light for Robotech, with a few ideas picked here and there from other sources. For the other... you'll see.

Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to other people. I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Summary: A navigational error throws the SDF-3 into the middle of another war.

Author's Note: Beware the vorpal plot bunny.

* * *

"Pioneer reports no damage from the nuclear strike, Admiral." 

"Understood," Rick nodded. As soon as the Pioneer folded in, he'd given Wade orders to deliberately give the Cylons a chance to use their nukes on the Pioneer; with the omni-directional barrier system, they were no threat, and it made a powerful statement. "Order all ships: Defensive fire only until five minutes from mark, then give me an open comm, all frequencies, no encryption."

"Comm open, sir."

Rick cleared his throat and spoke, "Attention, all Cylon forces. This is Admiral Rick Hunter of the Robotech Expeditionary Force. Your sensors cannot see us. Your weapons cannot hurt us. Your hacking attempts are useless. We've already demonstrated what our weapons can do to you. You have five minutes from mark to cease fire and surrender. All ships, mark. Hunter out."

"Cylon forces still attacking, sir."

"Understood," Rick nodded grimly.

* * *

"He what?" Rear Admiral (Upper Half) Helena Cain stared in disbelief. 

"The Earth admiral has issued a demand for the Cylons to surrender, sir," came the nervous reply. "He's given them five minutes and ordered all ships to engage in defensive fire only until the deadline."

Her XO, Colonel Fisk, looked at her questioningly, "What should we do, sir?"

Cain ground her teeth in indecision for a long moment, then finally closed her eyes in resignation. "We have our orders, XO. Defensive fire only, Guns."

* * *

"Let's RO-O-O-OCK!" PFC Jenette Vasquez roared as she and her partner in crime, PFC Mark Drake, proceeded to cut down the Centurions. 

The entire platoon was outfitted for a boarding action, which meant VR-041H Saber Cyclones. The Saber boasted a dozen internal Recluse rocket-propelled grenades, and the -H variant -- for which the Saber was named -- added a pair of retractable vibroblades to the mix, which were impractical for anything besides stealthy commando operations or the tight quarters of a boarding action like this. In addition, most of them carried the standard EP-37 60mm particle beam gun. Vasquez and Drake, on the other hand, were toting the M-100.

The M-100 was designed for heavy fire support against soft targets, used mostly against insurgents and space pirates. It was of little use against even the relatively lightly armored Invid mecha. Against infantry of all sorts, however, it was deadly. It was a long and sleek three-barreled weapon with a cyclic fire rate of 600 RPM. It was loaded from two 100-round box magazines, and it fired 12.7mm rounds... which was, in fact, the venerable .50 BMG round that had been in use for more than a century, albeit updated with modern propellants.

Some of the Cylon Centurions the marines faced had been built for boarding actions. As such, they had much heavier armor than their standard cousins, who could be destroyed by the hotloaded rifle rounds that had become standard issue in the refugee fleet. Their armor was tough enough that the Colonials needed to use their limited supply of explosive rounds to fight them effectively.

With enough power to punch through light Cyclone armor or even early tank armor, the M-100's 12.7mm rounds had no trouble ripping through even the upgraded armor of the boarding Centurions. With the advent of powered armor, the REF's definition of "small arms" was somewhat different from the Colonial -- and by extension, Cylon -- definition.

The other marines were not idle, either. The platoon moved with precision, like a well-oiled machine, halting when they ran out of targets. "Talk to me, Hudson," Sergeant Al Apone ordered.

"Incoming, multiple vectors," came the irreverent reply. "These toasters are toast!" PFC Hudson grinned as he negligently shot a Centurion as it rounded the corner, the blast punching clean through its torso.

Apone had had Drake and Vasquez taking point. Their M-100s had enough power to take out the Centurions, and unlike with the rest of the platoon's particle beam guns, a missed shot wasn't as likely to bperforate something important. They had come loaded for bear and found themselves fighting squirrels; they'd already stowed their EP-37s in favor of the somewhat safer Gallant H-90s.

Corporal Dwayne Hicks rounded a corner and hesitated, the muzzle of his Gallant between the breasts of a beautiful blonde. It wasn't the blonde who had been on the Colonials' list of Known Cylon Agents, but...

His finger tightened over the trigger.

Her hands shot up.

"I surrender."

Hicks sighed. Why did this have to happen to him?

"Sarge, I've got a situation here."

* * *

Even stretched out by the five minute surrender window, the space battle outside was relatively short and brutal. Once the Pioneer and her veritechs joined the fight, they had immediately begun slaughtering the Cylons with near impunity, and hundreds of Raiders died even during the five minute respite, cut down by point defense weapons. The battle wasn't entirely one-sided, however. 

"Damn it, Guns, I need that firing solution!" Lt. Cmdr. April Tobin snapped. She was the captain of the SCL-85 Garrote, one of the shadow-equipped Garfishes in the fleet; she was also Vanessa Leeds' XO in the Destroyer Squadron.

The Garfish was a small ship, with nowhere near the firepower or tonnage of a Tokugawa or Ikazuchi, but even discounting the new synchro cannons mounted on the latest ones, the Garfish's firepower was not to be underestimated. The Garfish had been designed as a mobile gunship, able to threaten light Zentraedi warships and support full-scale fleet actions with its ventral battery of three heavy cannons. Each gun was almost as powerful as the Wright's guns, which meant that a single good salvo could cripple a basestar if it hit the right spot.

The problem was in finding the right spot to hit. The basestars were flooding the area with some sort of ECM; the crew of the Garrote couldn't know that the "ECM" was actually a series of doomed attempts to access and hack into their computer systems. While the Garrote's guns were easily hitting the basestar -- it would have been difficult to miss at this range -- they weren't doing enough to cripple it, melting and boiling away its relatively thin armor plating and charring countless non-critical systems beneath. With each hit, portions of the basestar went dark, and missile tubes were silenced, but it wasn't enough.

While a larger ship could afford to simply keep firing until they hit something vital, the Garfish wasn't so lucky. With a three-second charge time between salvos, a relatively fragile hull, and only a matter of time before the Cylons got lucky at this range, they needed to make every shot count, which only increased the need for an accurate firing solution.

The Garfishes were not built for anti-fighter work, but while the Cylons still had a large reserve of Raiders -- despite the trap -- and the basestars' own internal ship-to-ship missile launchers, the shadow cloaking devices and the point defense weapons grafted on during the last refit protected the Garrote and her three sister ships -- the Trident, Broadsword, and Battleaxe -- from the worst of the Cylon counterattack.

The other three Garfishes in the fleet -- the Long Sax, Bokuto, and Masakari -- were accompanying the Xerxes on her mission.

"We have a solution!"

"Fire!"

Three particle beams raked across the basestar, once again melting and boiling away its armor plating and charring the interior. This time, however, the basestar's armored skin was considerably thicker, a sign of the importance of the systems it protected, but that wasn't enough to stop the beams as they punched through the armor plating and stabbed deep into the delicate systems beneath until they sank into the basestar's tylium power core.

The shrapnel from the resultant explosion caused more damage to the Garrote than the Raiders and missiles had.

* * *

"The last basestar has jumped out." 

"My gods," murmured Admiral Cain, stunned. "We actually did it."

There was a part of her that still had trouble grappling with the reality of it. The plan had been sound, and she had already seen what the Earthers' weapons could do, but she had still remained resistant to the idea, unwilling to believe that everything would go anywhere near as planned, unwilling to see the Earthers' optimism as anything but either arrogance or naivete.

Unwilling... to hope.

But there it was. They had just captured the Cylon flagship, destroyed seven basestars -- two of which had apparently attempted to surrender at the end, but that was well after the five minute window, and Hunter had shown no mercy -- and sent the last one running.

She wanted to cheer; she wanted to pull the nearest person (Colonel Fisk, incidentally) into a bone-crushing hug; she wanted to whoop and holler and throw her arms around in celebration; she wanted to order a parade, a carnival, and a fireworks display all at once; she wanted to do all these things and more.

And she wanted to cry. Whether in relief, in amazement, or out of sheer, unadulterated joy, she wasn't sure, but she could feel the tears welling in her eyes.

She didn't do any of these things, though. Had she been a mere commander, she might -- just might -- have given in to the urge to celebrate, but she was not a commander. She was an admiral, and a flag officer was held to a somewhat higher standard of decorum. Instead, she blinked the tears back and hardened her expression.

"Excellent," she said. "Let's bring our birds home."

* * *

Six gasped as she resurrected. She sat up in the tub, unconsciously touching her breastbone, where she remembered the searing hot energy blast cooking her flesh. This particular Six had once been known as Gina, an infiltrator aboard the Mercury-class battlestar Pegasus. She had been partly successful in her mission, but then been captured... tortured... raped. She had died when the cell they were holding her in had become depressurized; her rebirth after that had changed her, lighting a fire of vengeance within her, accompanied by a sadistic satisfaction that her direct tormentors had died with her. When the humans boarded the resurrection ship, she fought, refusing to give in, refusing to surrender. 

She would rather die a thousand more deaths than become the humans' captive again, and any she took with her was icing on the cake. She had hoped that the others would find a way to drive them off or that the humans would destroy the resurrection computer before she was reborn.

After that brief moment of reliving her last death, she looked around. Where were her siblings?

Fear siezed her heart when she saw them. Humans, clad in battle armor that could shrug off a Centurion's guns, stood vigilantly over the resurrection vats. Even here, in the heart of the resurrection ship, she wasn't safe.

Movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. One of the humans, the nearest one, turned to her, and even through the layers of battle armor, she could tell the human was male, just from body language and what she could see of his face through the helmet's visor. She shrank away. She was nude, vulnerable, fresh from her rebirth and without even a makeshift club to defend herself with.

She knew what would come. These humans... they were animals, in every sense of the word.

Then the human did something totally unexpected. He averted his gaze and tossed her some clothing. She recognized it as coming from the ship's stores on board for newly reborn Cylons. She looked up and stared at him in confusion.

"Get dressed."

* * *

Author's Postscript: 

Should have posted this up a while ago. Didn't realize how far behind I'd gotten in posting this 'fic.


	10. Chapter 10

Title: The Long March (10/?) 

Author: Cyclone

Feedback: Please be gentle.

Distribution: Gimme credit and a link.

Rating: Nothing worse than on the shows, except maybe language.

Spoilers: Up to Symphony of Light for Robotech, with a few ideas picked here and there from other sources. For the other... well, they're not going to find New Caprica, that's for sure.

Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to other people. I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Summary: A navigational error throws the SDF-3 into the middle of another war.

Author's Note: Beware the vorpal plot bunny. Starting to incorporate some elements of Shadow Chronicles.

* * *

Admiral Rick Hunter walked through the UES Wright's civilian sector. While the mobile tender's repair and maintenance facilities where nowhere near as extensive as, say, Space Station Liberty's, they were still quite capable of keeping the Pioneer's fleet going for years, which meant they took up an awful lot of space. The tender was over a kilometer long, though, and didn't devote as much space to heavy weapon systems as warships did, but even with all that, the sheer amount of space the repair and maintenance facilities took up made for a cramped interior. Despite that, however, the shipwrights had somehow managed to leave enough empty space in the plans to build a small city on board.

He stopped when he reached his destination and knocked.

The door opened, and he smiled, "You wanted to speak to me, Ms. Valerii?"

The Cylon refugee nodded, "Yes, Admiral. Please, come in." She waved him in, and she blushed as she closed the door behind him, "It's kind of a mess right now, sir. I'm not exactly your average home body."

"Don't worry about it, Ms. Valerii," Rick waved it off. "I imagine it takes some getting used to. You should see what happened to one of our first defectors. She ended up putting cooking oil in the coffee pot and setting it on fire."

She turned and stared at him, "You're kidding?"

Rick shook his head, "Nope. I swear, it happened just like that. Scout's honor. I was living right next door when it happened. You should meet her some time. She's the fleet's DCAG."

They shared a chuckle at that, and after the moment passed, Rick asked, "So, Ms. Valerii, where's Lieutenant Agathon?"

"He's out," she said. "Picking up a few things at the store. I still can't believe you people put a city on a ship. The most we've ever done are resort ships like Cloud Nine."

"Well, we didn't have much choice the first time we did it, and it became something of a tradition after that," Rick shrugged. "So what did you want to talk to me about, Ms. Valerii?"

She suddenly looked pensive. After a moment, she said, "I heard about the battle. Why didn't you ask me about the ship? I could have helped you."

"You're a refugee, Ms. Valerii," he replied. "Not just an intelligence resource. The terms we set for granting you political asylum preclude requesting your assistance against your native people beyond the initial debriefing."

"Well, you're not requesting this," she said. "I'm telling you. That ship you captured... it's the resurrection ship. All the sentient models -- humanoids models like myself, Raiders, Heavy Raiders -- if we die, that ship is where we come back. I don't know if it's the only one, but if it is..." she trailed off.

"If it is," he nodded, "then by capturing it, we've just crippled their ability to wear us down. They won't automatically win a war of attrition anymore. They'll have to change tactics."

"Exactly, sir."

* * *

Five people entered the central area aboard the ship that Admiral Hunter had privately dubbed the Resurrection: Admiral Hunter, Admiral Cain, Commander Adama, President Roslin, and Lieutenant Gorman. The central area -- the resurrection room -- was being used as a temporary holding area for the captured Cylons.

"We've separated the prisoners into two groups," Gorman explained. He nodded to the group on the left, "Those are the ones who surrendered," he waved to the group on the right, "and those are the ones we captured when they came out of these tubs."

Admiral Hunter exchanged glances with the Colonials, and President Roslin finally said, "This was your operation, Admiral, and it was your marines who captured them. I think you should take the lead."

"Thank you, Madam President," Rick nodded. He really didn't want to take the lead, but it would be... impolitic... to refuse. He led the contingent to the group of Cylons who had surrendered and said, "I am Admiral Rick Hunter of the Robotech Expeditionary Force and senior representative of the United Earth Government."

One of the Cylon stepped forward. She was one of the new models, one which had been identified as infiltrating the Colonials' Fleet News Service under the name of D'anna Biers.

"I am Number Three," she said. "If you have any questions for us, ask me."

"Very well, Ms. Three," he replied. "I am curious as to why so many of you surrendered."

"This is the resurrection ship, Admiral," Three said. "By surrendering, we can at least maintain some level of dignity." She gave a wry smirk, "We may come back from the dead, but our clothes do not."

"Fair enough," Rick replied, surreptitiously watching his Colonial counterparts. Roslin hid a smirk, and Rick could hear Adama cough suddenly. Cain's face remained expressionless, displaying an impressive level of discipline.

Well, this was off to a good start.

* * *

"You want me to what?" Miriya Parino Sterling asked skeptically.

"I want you to take charge of the prisoners, Captain," Rick repeated himself. Using her rank instead of her name signalled to her that this wasn't a request. They might be good friends, but right now, he was speaking as her superior officer.

"Sir, I'm not sure I understand your reasoning," she said, shifting to attention. "We're in a shooting war, and you want to take one of your best pilots and squadron commanders out of the cockpit to oversee captured enemy personnel?"

"It's your history, Miriya," he explained. "From what I've learned of Cylon and Colonial history, I think the Cylons don't think they can live at peace with humans. Your own experiences are proof that humans, at least, can overcome such prejudice."

She smiled faintly, "It wasn't easy."

"No," Rick shook his head, "no, it wasn't. But it can be done, and that, I think, is something we need to get across to the Cylons."

"So you want me to be the face," she concluded. Over the last couple of decades, she'd adjusted to human culture and picked up most human euphemisms. It had been... awkward... for a while, particularly for Max, whenever she pulled a social faux pas, but she was far past that now.

"Exactly," he nodded.

"But what am I supposed to do with them?" she frowned. "I have no experience dealing with prisoners."

"You could always make them coffee," he grinned. She shot him a withering look, and he said, "Just go check the regs, brush up on the UEG's POW policies, and go from there."

* * *

Lt. Cmdr. Tobin frowned at her chief weapons tech, "Well?"

"She needs a complete overhaul, Captain," came the resigned reply. "The damn yard dogs screwed up with the Haydonite components, fried it to holy hell."

"Can you jury-rig something?"

"Maybe," he shrugged. "If I cannibalize the shadow cloak, I could, and we'll need the Wright to fabricate a new set of power regulators. We won't get the same fire rate or firepower we would with Haydonite components, but that's the best we've got."

"Do it."

She only hoped she made the right decision. Without the shadow cloak, they'd be more vulnerable to missile strikes, but the need for firepower was simply too great to ignore. They'd been hammered pretty badly in the last fight because they had had to close to knife range to maximize the effect of their less powerful triple turret.

* * *

Commander William Adama, Colonial Fleet, approached Admiral Cain's office with no small amount of trepidation. There had been a silent tension ever since Pegasus had joined the Fleet, but the pressure of running a potentially critical offensive against the Cylons had pushed it to the backburner. Now that the battle was over, the possibility of a power struggle loomed ahead.

He knew whose side he would be on when the time came, but it would cripple the only two battlestars in the Fleet until the dust settled.

As he knocked, he sent up a silent prayer that this wasn't about to be the opening salvo.

"Enter."

He did so, closing the door behind him, and saluted, "Commander Adama, reporting as ordered, sir."

"At ease, Commander," the admiral said. Adama relaxed and surreptitiously studied her. She looked... tired. Very tired. But, oddly enough, happy.

He waited silently as she finished with the paperwork she was signing. She straightened and looked at him carefully. "I've been catching up on your reports of Galactica's actions since the initial attack," she began. "You took a decommissioned relic of a museum and managed to protect nearly fifty thousand souls, maintaining -- for the most part -- a working relationship with the surviving government of the Twelve Colonies with a level of stability that I would have thought impossible."

She stepped around the desk to stand in front of him and continued, "In light of your heroic actions, Commander, I am hereby promoting you to the rank of Rear Admiral, Upper Half." Adama stiffened in shock as she unhooked her rank insignia and pinned it to his shirt. "And... in light of my own emotional state after the Fall of the Twelve Colonies, I am also hereby tendering my resignation from the Colonial Fleet, effective immediately." She stepped back and saluted.

"The Fleet is yours, Admiral."

_As it always was,_ she added silently.

He returned the salute and frowned, "Ad-... Ms. Cain, if I may ask... why?"

"Because," she met his gaze, "these people are yours, sir, not mine. The military might have followed me, but the president and the Quorum would have fought me, and as a race, we would have lost. You held it together, sir. You can do this. I can't. Not anymore."

_Because... you never gave up hope, Bill._

"I'm not a veteran of the last war," she elaborated. "All my experience has been in simulators and tac rooms at War College, wargames that were all about objectives and numbers. Acceptable losses. For me, hope was an acceptable loss in exchange for survival. These people -- all of us, myself included -- need a leader who will not surrender hope to despair. That is you. You know it, I know it, and most importantly, the people know it."

* * *

Author's Postscript:

Nope. He certainly did not see that coming.

Did you?


	11. Chapter 11

Title: The Long March (11/?) 

Author: Cyclone

Feedback: Please be gentle.

Distribution: Gimme credit and a link.

Rating: Nothing worse than on the shows, except maybe language.

Spoilers: Up to Symphony of Light for Robotech, with a few ideas picked here and there from other sources. For the other... well, they're not going to find New Caprica, that's for sure.

Disclaimer: The characters depicted herein belong to other people. I'm just borrowing them for a while.

Summary: A navigational error throws the SDF-3 into the middle of another war.

Author's Note: Beware the vorpal plot bunny. Starting to incorporate some elements of Shadow Chronicles.

* * *

President Laura Roslin looked at the neatly typed up letter Comman- no, Admiral Adama had brought her. In a way, it completely undercut one of her concerns since Pegasus had joined the Fleet, but it opened up a whole other can of worms.

"She has to know I can't accept this, Admiral," she finally said. "We're fighting for our survival. We need every capable officer we can get."

"I'm aware of that, Madam President," he replied. "But if I'm reading her right... she doesn't consider herself fit for duty. Helena Cain's a strong person, Madam President, but with the Cylon attack and the fall of most of the Fleet, something gave."

"Can we rehabilitate her, Admiral? Get her back on her feet?"

"We're a little short of assignments worthy of an admiral, Madam President. We only have two battlestars, a few armed freighters, no real support ships. No strikestars, no defenstars, not even a patstar."

"How does the Fleet usually rehabilitate good officers who screwed up?"

"Minor jobs, worthy of the rank, but low-risk," Adama replied. "With a flag officer, we'd probably send her back to War College, have her teach basic Fleet tactics, but even if War College is still standing, it's in Cylon hands, and we don't exactly have much need for training new prospective 'star commanders anyway."

"Hmm," she mused. "There must be something we can..." she trailed off as the idea struck. She rose to her feet and headed for the door. Opening it and leaning her head out, she called, "Billy? Could you come in here for a minute? We have some paperwork to write up."

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

"All right, people!" Major Sean Phillips called out. "I want this area secured! Don't get too comfy! We're not gonna be here that long!"

They were on Caprica. The landing party under his command was immense by planetary standards, but it was somewhat understrength by interplanetary standards. With just under two thousand mecha, the landing force could easily overwhelm a large chunk of a continent but would have no real hope of taking a fortified planet.

Fortunately, Caprica did not appear to be heavily fortified.

He turned to the squadron leaders assembled before him and said, "Okay, you've all been given your assigned sectors as well as pictures of known Cylon agent models. If you encounter them, capture them if possible, terminate them if not. Assume any other humans you find are potential Cylon agents... but be polite just in case they aren't." That sent a ripple of chuckles throughout the crowd.

"Take out anything else," he added, his voice level and cold, cutting through the humor. "I'll be taking my team and the Roughnecks south to try and contact the local resistance. McQueen, set up an aerial recon and CAP, then pick your best pilots to fly air support for us."

"Yes, sir," the silver-haired Zentraedi nodded. Captain Tyrus Cassius "T.C." McQueen, REF Marine Corps Air Cavalry, had been a 'pod commander in the Imperial Fleet had and fought for Earth during the Rain of Death. During the battle, a Valkyrie pilot named McQueen saved his life at the cost his own, and when he sought out McQueen's family -- only vaguely grasping the concept and equating it to clone batches -- he was surprised to find that such a fine warrior had had none. Not even his squadron mates had survived, and he apparently had had no close friendships outside the squadron. When the Zentraedi defectors had been formally offered citizenship in the new United Earth Government, he had chosen to take the fallen pilot's name as his own, so that someone, at least, would remember... and so that he himself would not forget what the people of Earth had given him.

"Any questions?" Phillips waited for a moment, then said, "No? Good. Let me stress again: We canNOT let the Cylons acquire any of our technology, particularly our electronics, no matter what. Destroy your equipment if capture is imminent. If they get so much as a datadisc intact, it could compromise our computer systems on a fleetwide basis."

There were nods all around.

"Then let's get to it!"

* * *

Helena Cain stared at the sheaf of papers she had been handed. Although she had vacated her office immediately after submitting her resignation, leaving Col. Fisk in command, she had not yet moved off of Pegasus, and when the orders came in, Fisk had brought them to her himself. That the president was moving swiftly to account for her resignation was apparent when she noted Fisk's commander tabs.

She reread the orders again.

"To: Rear Admiral (UH) Helena Cain,

"Your resignation has not been accepted. However, in light of the concerns brought up within your request, you will be removed from active duty, pending a review by the new Senior Flag Officer. You will be detached from Colonial Fleet to act as Liaison Officer and Officer in Charge of all Detached Colonial Forces to the Robotech Expeditionary Forces.

"Immediately upon receipt, this date, you are to report to REF Flagship UES Pioneer (SDF-3) to assume your duties. REF command has been informed of your impending arrival.

"As Officer in Charge, you may not be in direct command of these people, but you are responsible for them, to make sure they act according to the Code of Conduct and that they are treated properly by the host command.

"You are required to perform the usual duties of a Liaison Officer and make routine reports on the situation of those troops to Admiral Adama and the President as required.

"You are to brief the REF Command Staff on all joint operations and ensure that there are working lines of comunications and logistics, as well as military support, to and from the Colonial Fleet and REF.

"Signed, President Laura Roslin, Commander-in-Chief, Colonial Fleet."

Fisk had told her that he would have her things -- most of which she had already packed in anticipation of her departure from the service -- sent over as soon as possible.

The orders weren't quite like those cut for her before, back when the Colonial government still had its layers of bureaucracy and miles of red tape and Official-ese, but she supposed it was to be expected. She was probably the only person left alive who knew what Presidential Fleet orders should look like. She shook her head with a rueful smile as the irrelevance of the thought struck her.

Who gave a frak what things were like before?

She knew she was just trying to settle herself. Part of what had driven her to tender her resignation -- a large part -- had been the Earthers. She'd been briefed on what parts of their history they had revealed, and... it had shamed her. As a people, they had suffered so much more than the Colonials had, and yet they had never quite descended into barbarism because of it.

And now she was going to be surrounded by people who were so much better than her.

* * *

"Doctor Lang," Rick greeted the head of the REF's R&D department. It was an informal staff meeting, partly to ease the new Colonial liaison officer into their routine. "Progress on adapting the Resurrection's controls?"

"Ve're making quvite a bit of headvay," was the heavily-accented reply. "Doctor Baltar and his expertise in biochemistry has been invaluable to our efforts. Also, Admiral, I have confirmed zat ze Resurrection's cloning tanks are almost zertainly adapted from Tirolian technology."

"Which is pretty much what we expected," Rick nodded.

"Excuse me," Cain frowned, as she realized that something wasn't quite adding up. "Why would you be expecting that?"

A pregnant silence followed her question, and Admiral Hunter sighed, "I'm afraid that's something we aren't at liberty to explain, Admiral. Suffice it to say that we have reason to believe that Cylon biotechnology is based on Tirolian biotechnology."

"I see," she nodded. Something was up, but at least they were open about keeping whatever it was from her. A moment later, she shook off her suspicions. She was a liaison officer, not a spy.

"What about the tylium power, Doctor?" Hunter asked.

"Vell, ve are having some difficulty vith miniaturization. Ze Cyclones' interface computers and flight thrusters simply demand too much power, more power zan ze tylium can provide on such a compact scale," Lang explained.

Rick nodded. It was, quite honestly, better than he had expected to hear. Their protoculture supply was actually far from running out, especially with the matrix on board, but he also had to think long term. Tylium power could extend the fleet's operational capacity by decades.

After the Second Robotech War, members of the 15th ATAC had come to Tirol, and with them, they had brought the protoculture matrix that had been uncovered in the last battle with the Robotech Masters. Although the United Earth Government had had a huge stockpile of protoculture -- cannibalized from the wreckage of Zentraedi ships after the Rain of Death -- the matrix was the only means by which the Flower of Life could be converted to protoculture, so it had been stored aboard the Pioneer for safekeeping, where it would normally have been protected by a quarter of the fleet and mobile enough to escape capture.

Unfortunately, they had a limited supply of the Flower of Life, and their ships' hydroponics were ill-suited to growing more. Even if the Flower of Life hadn't been such a finicky plant, there was no way the hydroponics could grow them on the scale they'd need to keep the fleet's assets fueled indefinitely and grow enough food crops to keep the crews fed at the same time.

"Well, then," Rick said, "Captain Sterling, have there been any problems with the disposition of the prisoners?"

"No, Admiral," the temporarily reassigned DCAG shook her head, still uncomfortable sitting at "the big table," so to speak. Her long, dark green hair had come as a shock to Admiral Cain when she first saw it, even after being briefed one her slightly different genetic background. As Miriya opened her mouth to continue, the comm station in the conference room chimed.

"Admiral Hunter, we're receiving a transmission from Captain Leeds."

"Put her through, Sparks," he replied.

This was the reason Rick had chosen this particular conference room for this staff meeting. It was wired for FTL teleconferencing across multiple ships and even multiple command posts, and he had scheduled the staff meeting to occur when the Xerxes was scheduled to report in.

The wall screen flashed over to reveal Captain (UH) Vanessa Leeds on the bridge of the Xerxes, and Rick smiled, "Captain, progress report?"

"We have deployed our designated landing force on Caprica approximately fifty kilometers north of Delphi, Admiral. The Xerxes is currently in station-keeping orbit over the landing forces' ground base."

"Spaceborne resistance?" Rick prompted.

"Minimal, sir," she reported. "Six Cylon basestars were in orbit over the planet. Four jumped out soon after detecting us, and the remaining two were destroyed by synchro cannon fire from beyond their weapons range. We suffered no damage and no casualties."

"Good to hear, Captain," he nodded. "Anything else of note?"

"No, Adm-," she stopped in mid-word as her attention was drawn away from the comm screen. She frowned and ordered, "Launch the ready five." She looked back at the comm station, "Admiral, we have incoming. Sensors are trying to get a lock on what it is, but it's not the Cylons." Her head whipped around as another report came in, and she turned back to the comm station, "Invid! Admiral, we have Inv-!"

Rick felt his blood freeze as the image on the other side shook, and the transmission cut off.

Their war had just caught up with them.

* * *

Author's Postscript:

The fecal matter is just starting to impact the oscillating air circulation device.


End file.
